Chimaera
by Ehres
Summary: "Maybe he could change Sirius's fate once again." Harry thinks a time-turner will bring his godfather back but things go horribly wrong; he looks down and wonders why he is sporting green and silver house colours. No pairings, mature. Multi-chapter.
1. I: As Soldiers We Fell

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—x—

The laugh lines in Sirius's face were still deep. He wore his schoolboy grin as Bellatrix's curse hit him square in the chest.

The world around Harry froze: he watched Sirius look down at himself. Flashes of bright light and snarls of tornados of darkness stopped whirling around him; the Aurors and Hogwarts children stopped along with the haggard-looking Death Eaters to see Sirius fall. From the corner of his eye Harry saw someone moving—but nothing commanded his attention more than the sorry look in Sirius's eyes.

Harry's heart went still as the man stumbled and fell backwards into the veil with glassy eyes.

Then his thoughts kicked in double-time and he heard himself screaming, the force of it almost like vomit in his throat as he threw himself forwards to stick his hand into the veil and perhaps pull Sirius back out—he'd saved him once before, back with the dementors at the lake; he could do it again, all it took was a happy thought, an, _"Expecto Patronum!"_

His fingers grazed the arch's rough surface and the air went out of him as a pair of strong arms yanked him back. He fought against the iron lock and continued to scream, his voice high and rasping in his throat; tears stung at the corner of his eyes and his glasses became useless. Everything around him was silent for the longest time—and then Bellatrix laughed.

A cold, girlish, insane cackle: and it was like a scream. The horrible screeching scraped at the inside of Harry's ears and head and as if he'd been triggered he slammed himself out of the iron grip and almost fell over as he charged after her.

She was already running.

Her curly black hair flew out behind her like a funeral veil, and her hand-sewn bodice like a casket that Harry wanted to bury her in—so small and compact that she'd bleed on the inside and scream and never have the peace of falling behind a veil.

"I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black!"

Her manic screams pounded the walls of Harry's head and made his scar tingle, only worsened by the wide open space of the Ministry lobby. She skipped over the fountain, splashing water all over herself like a child, and then hopped out the other side and skidded in her big black boots over the slick black floor. Her laugh grew higher as she struggled to find her balance but she ran like Devil's Snare from sunlight and shot for the nearest fireplace that wasn't locked.

_Stop,_ Harry thought, _come back here and finish me too!_

His wand was gripped tight in his hand like a knife and he raised it above his head like he could plunge it down into her black veins and slash all the life out of her; as she ran she looked like the reaper, her ugly black clothes and gnashing teeth and wicked eyes and evil magic no better than any killer. No proper spell came to Harry's mind as he pointed his wand at her back: but the one he screamed out made the woman stop and turn and cackle even louder as she saw the faint wisps of a stag billow out into cold air.

"_Expecto—E__xpect…"_

"A patronus, 'Arry?" Bellatrix's eyes were crazed as she clasped at her breast and teased her chest with the end of her wand. "Think of the 'appiest times you 'ad with your dearest Sirius! Come on, think!"

Vomit coursed up Harry's throat and he almost curled over and let his body do the talking, but he gritted his teeth and pointed his wand straight at her. Now a spell came to mind, one he really wanted to use and throw back in her ugly, dirty face, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth: instead of the bright flash of green light—the exact shade of his mother's eyes—there was a whimper of air as a spell finally snaked out from behind his teeth.

"_Crucio!"_

Its invisible rope seemed to strike Bellatrix right over the heart, and she fell to the floor and screamed, still that gleeful look in her eyes. Harry withdrew his wand, fire coursing through his body like his own blood, and as her breast heaved the fire grew and he could feel it consuming him from the inside. He lashed out with the torture spell out again, this time screaming at her, and she gave a heart-stopping shriek and writhed around like a worm being stamped on. Her wand skittered off to the side, filthy fingernails clawing at the floor, her laughter now beset with her pain.

Harry's face cracked into a grin and he released his hold on her, only to let her breathe for a second before he cut at her face with a slashing spell.

Blood began pouring everywhere. There were three deep gashes right across her face to match Lupin's—she could take Greyback's payback for him, and she could be even uglier and even more unwanted and uncared for until the end of her sorry life. She could run back to Voldemort and have him lick at her wounds and then serve him until he found no further use for her and then she could die in her own blood and filth like the soul-sucking scum she was.

Behind the anger raging inside his brain Harry saw that he had cut her deep into her cheekbone. She was covering herself with her hands now, quite scared but not trembling, and she was feeling for her wand with her feet. The stick was long, dark and twisted like Bellatrix herself, and Harry was about to set it on fire when a sudden sick feeling overcame him.

It was quite like fire cusped inside ice and it trickled through him like hot, scalding water from the top of his head right to his toes. The fury and fire in his veins was gone, his blood replaced by the hissing of snake tongues, evil and forgotten Parseltongue words. His heart was so stunted and repulsed by it that it seemed to try and jump out of his chest, and Harry, suffering, stumbled to the floor and dropped his wand.

Sickness enveloped him, and then headache and earache: cold wind whistled through his ears and into his brain and it made him dizzy, made him feel like he was going to bend over and wretch his guts out on the Ministry floor. But it wasn't vomit or dizziness that floored him; it was the words themselves, spoken as if Nagini had gotten her horrible fangs in his ear and was sticking her disgusting tongue inside his brain.

"_Saasa-sasheethhh—"_ Harry's brain quickly translated _"—Go on, Harry, you know the words… She killed your only family—she took Sirius away from you…"_

It was obvious to Harry who it was talking to him—but somehow he didn't care. He wasn't terrified as he had been last year with Cedric in the graveyard. This was different: this was the only reminder of his parents and now that effigy was gone. He found peace in Sirius, in writing to him and talking to him at Christmastime; he enjoyed cleaning Grimmauld Place of doxies at his godfather's side; he enjoyed cooking and eating with him, and most of all he enjoyed listening to tales about his parents during their time at Hogwarts. Sirius had been Harry's automatic go-to, his confidant, his beacon in dark times.

Now that was gone and there was no family left for him.

Harry gave a great sob and scrabbled for his wand; when his shaking fingers found it, he pointed it at Bellatrix. She was the only point in his world now. Everything else swirled around her in sickening blacks and greens.

"_Go on, do it—feel the rage, __Harry, let it out on her. Say it, use it…"_ His hand was shaking as his chest heaved. _"Let me guide you, Harry… Say it… Avada… Avada…" _Harry's eyebrows came together and he aimed for Bellatrix's chest. Sirius would've laughed at the irony. Sirius would've goaded him on.

"_Av…"_ Harry panted. Bellatrix saw his struggle and his pain; it fanned her amusement and she showed her ugly rotting teeth as she cackled. She was challenging Harry—challenging him to kill her because she was a fucking psychopath. But Sirius would encourage Harry, right his aim for him, help him pronounce the Latin of the spell more accurately.

"_Avada…"_ A wispy green snake floated from the end of his wand but dissipated quickly. This one hissed as well; Sirius would've asked him what it was saying.

"_Avada…"_ But it made Harry no better than Bellatrix, and Sirius would never have killed in anybody's name. He would never have sullied honour for the sake of revenge. He was a better man—Azkaban had taught him that.

"_Avada… Kedav…"_

"_No."_

Harry lowered his wand, and then there was a roar of fury and a great mass of noxious gas larger than those of the Death Eaters materialised between him and Bellatrix. Harry braced himself; he knew who this was. Time to face him again. Time to die again.

Time to live for Sirius.

Bellatrix crowed wildly. Her tongue wagged between her teeth and—getting to her feet just as Harry did—she pressed her ugly gown as if to present herself for someone of high importance. Harry felt bile rise in his throat as she almost curtseyed as a tall figure stepped from the gas.

Yes, he still looked the same: same flat, noseless face; same slate-coloured eyes devoid of anything but hatred; same pallid, waxy skin with a network of veins like a roadmap viewed from overhead. He drifted forwards, almost gliding in that black shawl of his, and twisted his arm around in a strange circle with his clawed ivory wand lodged between his long, nailed fingers.

"_Harry."_

Pain exploded in Harry's forehead and he crippled under its force; the floor winded him as he hit it, and his wand almost skittered away but he kept it tight to himself at the last second, hugging it like a lifebelt. It went through him like waves, the agony, washing over the desolate shore of hope. The buoy that was Sirius was gone: no light, no guidance—Harry was left utterly alone. And there were two psychopaths before him who would kill him in a heartbeat. One of them had already tried four times.

He lurched to the side, instinct kicking in, and jumped to his feet to make for the nearest point of cover: a pillar sticking out from the wall. Harry slammed against it, heart thudding rapidly, and he felt the whisper of a green lasso just miss the drawstrings of his cardigan by the fraction of an inch. Sucking in a deep breath, Harry darted his head around the corner and shot out with a, _"Expelliarmus!"_ The red cord of his spell collided with another green thread, locking Harry and Voldemort's wands together; Harry felt the jet veering to the right and he pulled it back towards the centre so as not to be disarmed by Voldemort for a split second, in which Voldemort would be able to jab at him with more killing curses.

Bellatrix, on the other hand, was hooting with laughter yet Harry didn't care watch her destination as she scampered away, her Victorian boots going _clicker-clack, clicker-clack, clicker-clack_ as she went; Voldemort would make use of his moment of distraction and finish him off, and even Harry with his hot-headedness and pain of Sirius's death knew that it was not the right time to go after her purely because it was not yet the time to die.

"Should've killed her, Harry," Voldemort mocked, "should've gotten your revenge!" Bellatrix laughed with her girlish scream once more like punctuation to Voldemort's sentences. It made Harry boil because he knew it was a game—and the worst insult was that they knew _he_ knew it was a game. Harry wasn't here to play games; Harry was here to get a look at that prophecy. He'd done that. And Voldemort had come—using Sirius's death and Harry's chase as context—and now there was this.

Harry didn't know if he was going to win, but he had to say something. Anger parted his lips and hissed his words: "I'm not a killer like you, _Riddle_—" Voldemort pulled an ugly face "—I don't kill because I can."

Voldemort went to raise the beam up into the air but Harry yanked it back down. This was turning into banter now, but Harry was well on his guard: Voldemort was as unpredictable as a lightning strike. It didn't surprise him when he barked a laugh.

"Evil is a point of view," he said simply, and then knocked the spells into the air where they fizzled out violently; Harry was twisted from the force of it and in his openness he realised that he was completely vulnerable. Yet he couldn't stop himself from stumbling and he rolled to the floor and went to cast a poorly-aimed, _"Protego!"_ when something hit Voldemort from the side and sent him flying backwards.

Harry heard Bellatrix gasp atop his own thudding heart; and then Voldemort reformed with a yell, using his black smoke to cushion the collision with a nearby wall. Harry blinked wildly, not seeing much from his skewwhiff glasses—but then there was a tall, blurry frame in shades of blue and white and it had an arm outstretched. His stomach flipped, wondering _what on Earth_ was going on, and went to scramble to his feet to hide when he was pushed back down behind the pillar. His eyes swerved to Bellatrix's face for a split second and he saw a horrified look there; then she disappeared into the green flames behind the gate with a smug smirk and Harry's chances at revenge were gone.

It wounded him more than it should have given his new predicament, sent weak tremors through him like little crackles of lightning, _disabled_ him for a moment—and then Harry sucked in a razor-sharp breath and twisted his head to see Dumbledore—where had he come from? How could he have possibly known where they were?—advancing on a snarling Voldemort. Both had their wands pointed at one another, formalities gone. Dumbledore mustn't have given Voldemort the usual niceties, must've been because of his attack on Harry.

He was on the defensive, never quite striking with his spells. Whether it was because he didn't have it in his heart to lash out, Harry didn't know—or perhaps it was because Dumbledore too knew the prophecy. Perhaps he wasn't going to waste his time when the prophecy clearly stated that Voldemort had to be killed by Harry himself. This must've been an attempt at fending him off but no matter what it was Dumbledore was doing rather well. He had a great shield around him as Voldemort sent out a round of Fiendfyre in the form of a terrible snake; then he replaced it with a quick whip of his wand, and water rose from the fountain through which Bellatrix had splashed and doused the flames.

He twisted his hand as Voldemort faltered and made a choking noise; the water swilled around like a whirlpool, twisting over the ground and rising into the air like a galaxy; it became a sphere as Dumbledore threw it at Voldemort, and Voldemort was caught by it. He disappeared into the black waves.

Harry watched with baited breath as Dumbledore guided the ball around the room, containing the Dark Lord. Maybe the intention was to drown him—could Voldemort even drown?—or to simply make him dizzy. His face kept appearing at the surface and his cheeks were puffed on either side of his snake nostrils like he'd taken in a sudden breath of air to save himself. But something twitched in Dumbledore's hand and the spell broke and Voldemort went crashing to the floor for a moment before he righted himself. The water washed over the area, collected back into the fountain as Dumbledore struggled with something unseen—and Harry's heart almost stopped.

Voldemort was sucking in a great breath of air it seemed, his shining eyes trained on Dumbledore. It was almost as if he saw the headmaster as Harry's armour or great wall of defence with the way his glare seemed to burn around the old man's form; and then he yelled and released a blast of black energy which rippled through the air like a sailing knife, and Harry and Dumbledore went crashing back.

"Professor!" Harry heard the old man's back give a nasty _crack_ against the black tile of the wall, and instantly he went rushing forwards to help him up. The professor took his help for a few seconds before shoving him back around the corner just as the glass of thousands of cases stacked up against the wall smashed and went flying to the floor. Dumbledore cast a shield spell to avoid splinters, but he was distracted as Voldemort hissed through his split tongue and held his hands above the air to summon up the very same glass.

A feeling of dread rushed through Harry as he realised that all the bits of glass were joining together form great, thick ropes above Voldemort's head: how to save Dumbledore, Dumbledore who was _extremely_ important in everything, went through his mind. But he couldn't think of a single way and reverted in his panic to jumping to his feet once more to knock the old man out of the way when the ropes of glass turned into a spear and went careering towards them.

Dumbledore made a noise of struggle, and then a great white wall went up around the both of them as soon as the glass went to slice through them; it turned into a snowy powder and Harry could only marvel as it collected in thick heaps on the floor. It was like light magic against evil magic, if such a thing as good magic even existed.

Voldemort's face fell. And then he screamed and rushed forwards and Harry made a sound like a trapped animal and skittered to the side to see Dumbledore's blackened hand smack forwards to hit the other man across the face and send him bouncing to the floor. As Voldemort collided to the surface he sent out another green jet, this time intended to arrow into Dumbledore's chest, but missed from the turmoil of the slap.

There was the stink of burning hair; Harry looked to see several strands of Dumbledore's great white beard sizzling ominously. He'd been _that_ close to losing his head teacher.

As Voldemort righted himself, Dumbledore circled his wand above his head to form a white wall of protection—stronger than the one previous—just as Voldemort vaulted out with a crack of golden lightning. _"Oof!"_ went the old man as it sizzled angrily through his defences: he recoiled with his own strike of lightning intended to catch Voldemort as he danced backwards. When he missed, his face became grave with resolve and he muttered something inaudibly to himself. Harry watched in absolute awe as another lick of lightning erupted from his knobbly wand and twisted high into the sky to take the form of a great, screeching phoenix.

The noise was like poison to Voldemort's ears. He gasped inwardly sharply like he'd been hit in the stomach quite hard; and then he raised his hands to block out the noise, but the bird was descending on him with wicked eyes and he had to send up a black shroud of smoke to defend himself. The phoenix blasted through it yet fizzled away as it went to zap at Voldemort's skin. The effect was like a meteor zipping through Earth's atmosphere.

And it occurred to Harry that he was utterly useless: here were the two most powerful, revered wizards in the entire world, and Harry was cowering in the corner as his other friends and comrades were attacked.

He was useless. That was how Sirius had died. If he carried on, this was how Dumbledore would die. The realisation and sting of loss burned at the edges of the great hole in his heart and was so painful it was almost physical. His throat tightened, choking. He couldn't breathe; he knew he was going to cry, and he had to leave and do something.

He zipped to his feet quickly, behind the pillar out of Voldemort's sight, and pressed his eyes shut as he thought of something—of anything. Dumbledore could hold his own for a long while, but he wasn't sure if Voldemort's recklessness would stay at bay for much longer. He had to run and find the others and strike down the Death Eaters with them; then they could come to Dumbledore's aid and defeat Voldemort once and for all.

His parents could be avenged, and so could Sirius. So could the entire Potter family; so would the entire wizarding world.

Harry gritted his teeth and broke out into a sprint. Voldemort did not seem to notice him at first but then he bellowed from a place deep in his chest, and sent another green javelin towards him. It missed, such was his anger and instability, and Harry's heart picked up double-time as he went vaulting through the arches that walled the lobby. Voldemort went to turn, but Dumbledore had conjured another phoenix—this time out of ice—and was sending it swooning down on the Dark Lord's pale head; he turned, threw up yet another defence, but was distracted long enough by Dumbledore's sudden rise in onslaught that Harry careened straight back down the corridor whence he'd come.

Noises of Dumbledore's fight faded and were replaced by high-pitched yelps and gruelling laughter. There were expletives here and there—an extreme one from Ron in particular as he missed a, _"Stupefy!"_—which covered Harry's pounding footsteps. He paused on the lip of the room, not daring to look inside. He knew his eyes would be drawn to that terrible arch in the middle and there was a more important mission on hand: saving Dumbledore.

He bent over to catch his breath; stitches cracked through his ribs—inhaling was painful because it seemed like he'd splintered a bone or strained a muscle—and yet he could go on purely because he had to. A few seconds passed to allow himself to steady himself on his feet, and then he poked his head around the corner and saw Lucius Malfoy's savage face merely inches from his own. Almost instinctively Harry pulled his fist back to lay a sickening punch into the man's face, and glee overcame him when he cried out and clutched at his beaky nose to stop the waterfall of blood.

That was one for Sirius.

And again his heart swelled and his mind went numb. He just had to act. Had to get Dumbledore out. That was the main priority—

"_Fuck!"_

Harry swerved around to see Ginny's collarbone gashed wide open by a, _"__Diffindo!__"_ from a Death Eater whose mask had fallen off. Harry recognised the stocky build and the stupid yet vagrant expression that reminded him of a caveman: thick black curls were like those of Goyle. Harry advanced on him as he raised his hand to send another spell Ginny's way, and just as Goyle had been about to hiss, _"__Crucio!__"_ the words exploded behind Harry's lips instead and Goyle went toppling to the ground..

"_Crucio!"_ This one was much more powerful than the one he'd cast at Bellatrix—it seemed to overcome Goyle's whole body like a tidal wave, and Harry imagined him choking on water. Goyle reached for his throat, sucking in air like a fish because he couldn't breathe, and then Harry twisted that image around to force the pain of mutilation of the fingers through Goyle's hands.

"No, please—!"

But Harry couldn't stop. Behind Goyle's convulsing form he could see the outline of the veil. It spurred him on further, made tears sting at the corners of his eyes as he blasted that energy into the Death Eater's body. Sirius wouldn't have stood for this normally but Sirius wasn't here now—and wouldn't Sirius have turned to these extreme spells to protect others just as Harry was doing for Ginny now?

And Ginny, she really needed some Essence of Dittany. Hermione should have some; Hermione had all the answers…

But Hermione could not construct a spell or a device to reach beyond the filmy veil and bring Sirius back to him. For that Harry almost hated her, but it was no use. This was the way of magic. Dumbledore would've told him that death was a beautiful end to everything. Dumbledore wouldn't have realised that death was the constant plague Harry carried around with him.

Everyone around him died. What had Sirius been but another addition to that list?

Even if Dumbledore were saved, Harry would still be alone. Harry would find the most peace with Neville, and even then Neville could visit his parents at the hospital and take flowers to them. Maybe he'd accompany Harry to leave a handful of those same flowers at the grave. They could grow old together as friends and now Harry wasn't thinking straight because the agony of it all was too much.

He sent another volley of torture curses Goyle's way, angry and frustrated and _hurt_—_fuck you, Goyle, fuck you and fuck your son and fuck every one of t__hese Death Eaters, fuck all of them and fuck Voldemort_—and grinned with twisted satisfaction as the man cried out as his jaw came loose. He clasped onto himself, free from Harry's tormenting for a minute, and let out a wail of agony before crashing to the floor.

_Roll around all you like,_ Harry thought, _still won't bring Sirius back_.

He looked up from the screaming figure, and in the centre of his vision stood the arch. The filmy veil flapped weakly, stirred by no apparent air, and taunted him. And yet it was innocent and childlike, a sort of supernatural Stonehenge that the Druids had forgotten to put away for safety.

Or maybe the Ministry had placed it here. Perhaps this room was a place where people went to die.

He was walking forwards without realising it. He stumbled rather weakly, not caring that Death Eaters around him were suffering from all sorts of wounds, and then stood before the thing for what seemed like hours. It became a focal point. The people around it were meaningless; almost like _The Sc__ream_, this piece of history, ugly but beautiful. A magical Van Gogh.

Suppose he could reach Sirius like reaching to pick up the telephone. Suppose he could dip his hand inside and part the ghostly cloth fluttering there to find Sirius's hand outstretched and ready to be pulled back. It didn't seem like such a bad idea. It wasn't that impossible, was it?

_Harry._

Sirius's voice whispering like Parseltongue. A breath to push out the first syllable, a rounding of the lips to sound out the second.

_Harry._ Simple. _Ha-rry._

The ghostlike quality to it astounded him. Change was quick, wasn't it? Hadn't even been a full fifteen minutes and already Sirius seemed to be decomposing into a shell on the other side. Maybe it was a white shell made up out of twisting words to fit the spiritual realm beyond.

And if Harry pulled Sirius back through, surely he'd adapt to the material plain and get his body back? The worst that could happen was that he'd end up like Professor Binns, which wasn't that bad at all if you thought about it—

_No. Stay._

_Stay where?_ Harry thought.

_There__,_ it replied.

_But is there nothing, _he thought quickly, _is there really nothing? I can put my hand through and I'll grab onto you and then I'll pull you back here with me and Ron and Hermione and__ your good friend Lupin—Dumbledore's back there and he's struggling with Voldemort. We could use your firework spells, Sirius, to kill him off once and for all. You know all those flashy spells, we could work together and finish him—_

_No._

Harry's heart swelled up. His brows knitted together. He turned away. Didn't want to hear anymore. Had to get back to the main mission which he _told_ himself he'd prioritise—and yet it stung, this truth. He wanted to drop down and curl into a corner and cry. Really, painfully cry until he was so exhausted he fell into a dreamless sleep.

But people were dying around him and if Dumbledore fell then Voldemort would win, and nobody would stand any chance at all. Harry had to concentrate on that and push the irrelevant things behind him. They could be dealt with later, like errors on an important paper. He would try to correct them when things were safe.

He turned around to see Tonks stumbling backwards into the wall with a large, beefy Death Eater advancing on her. She was in some kind of pain, as it was written on her face, but her drawn brows and hard eyes showed absolute determination and with lightning-quick movements she swatted the predator in the fact with a, _"__Impedimenta__!"_ which sent him twirling backwards like a limp ballerina performing a scissor-kick in the air. Harry was about to grin, but then her eyes met his and they rolled up to reveal the whites as she slumped down to the floor.

Harry yelled out a, _"No!"_; Lupin whipped around, was hit square in the chest by a disarming spell and smashed his head on the floor as his wand skittered away. And here was Harry, trapped, with only Kingsley Shacklebolt the remaining adult and a group of his poorly-trained Hogwarts friends as an army. He twisted around, thinking of the attacks and defences he'd taught his friends during the DA sessions and yet coming up with nothing, _nothing_—

"_Finite Incantatem!"_ The spell erupted stupidly from his mouth and his wand at the same time, and a Death Eater somewhere laughed, and Luna gave him a funny look before she made a moaning sound as she was gutted by a tall woman's fist, and Harry stared at her, too—and he seemed to be doing _nothing_ right.

Kingsley looked at him with grave eyes, twirling his wand quietly and sending his attacker smashing into the wall. Harry had disarmed two of the Death Eaters, Tonks one as had Kingsley, and Bellatrix had escaped—but there were six more Death Eaters, one for Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Neville and Kingsley—and then the dazed Luna and the injured Lupin, and the dying Tonks—and Harry turned again, battles recommencing, and he wished he could summon Fawkes to drip his tears onto the injured.

Even the sword of Gryffindor would have done at this point, but all Harry had was his lousy magic. Nothing else to protect himself or the others with, just a handful of lousy, mismatched spells: _Point Me, Lumos Maxima, __Prior Incantato__, Avifors, __Waddiwasi__…_

Harry saw Lupin raise his bloody head, the Death Eater raise his wand, and then from his lips the first spell that came to mind, _"Ta__rantallegra!"_ and then he watched with absolute relief as the Death Eaters's legs began to jerk about uncontrollably, knocking to him onto his side, at which point Harry cried, _"Petrificus Totalus!"_ and the Death Eater came to a sudden still, his legs bent at horrible angles.

Harry went to suck in a breath of relief, but Lupin's face lit up and he went to scream his name when Harry heard Hermione's shriek of, _"Bombarda__!"_ and there was the horrifying sound of blood and flesh splattering everywhere; he turned his head, saw his friend drenched from head to toe in the gore of the Death Eater she'd just blown the leg off of, and felt sick—but then Hermione turned to him, hobbled over and helped him bring Lupin to his feet.

"Could do with some Dittany," Lupin said, looking over at Ginny as well, "and a bit of chocolate." He gave Harry a thankful look, and then Harry remembered something very important and he almost screamed at his ex-teacher: "Dumbledore! Lupin, Voldemort—he's back!"

Ron twitched at the sound of the name; his Death Eater grinned madly, whipped him around the face with his wand, and sent him stumbling backwards. Harry watched, along with Lupin and Hermione, as Ron tripped over his long shoelaces and toppled backwards, collapsing on top of Luna, and bit the end of his tongue off when we went to scream out more expletives. Blood went everywhere; Harry's stomach flipped and Hermione leaped forwards to his rescue, but the Death Eater latched onto her, twisted her small body against his chest, and stuck his wand to her throat like he was going to slit it as though he had a knife.

Harry, horrified, stared wildly.

Himself, Neville, Lupin—who was bleeding from the head, Ginny—who was bleeding profusely from the collarbone—and Kingsley were left. Hermione was captured; Tonks was slumped against the wall; Luna was slumped on the floor; Ron was sprawled on top of her; Dumbledore was apprehended by Voldemort; and Sirius was dead.

Harry's gut tightened, and then he turned away from the arch and Hermione being held by the Death Eater and the corridor that lead back to Dumbledore fending off Voldemort, and he ran down a wide passage, deeper into the heart of the Ministry. The echoes of Death Eater laughter followed him like those ghosts on Dudley's _Super Mario_ game—but he wasn't running away. He was looking for a cure.

They were in the Department of Mysteries. Surely there had to be some sort of cure here? St. Mungo's would be the best place, but Harry and his friends didn't have such medical liberties and people were _dying_ around him left, right and centre. Harry had to do something, anything: and they would have been better off without him on the battlefield. He had distracted Ron, Luna and Lupin and all had been injured because of that; had he not distracted Ron, he wouldn't have caused Hermione's capture. And had he not been standing near Sirius when Lucius Malfoy had been attacking—desperate to get to Harry and the prophecy—then Sirius would not have died.

Harry swallowed hard, and turned into a circular room with black slate and glass for walls, and he came to a standstill.

Brains in tanks lined along the walls, each of them tumbling endlessly: the brain sank down the long tanks, growing as they went, and as soon as they hit the bottom they were zipped backwards, small once more. It was like an endless cycle of growth and decay. He took his eyes from them, sickened by the changing of colour from healthy pink to dead grey, and noticed a black desk with gold trimmings.

When he went over to it, he was caught off guard. There was a tray sticking out from it that did not look like it belonged to the desk at all, and inside was absolutely nothing. He frowned, inspected it curiously, and then touched it with his wand.

_Schruuuccch._

He span around to see a small section of the back wall sliding back. His wand came to his chest defensively, ready to cast Hermione's exploding spell—_Oh, Hermione_—but paused, with a frown, when he saw another tray sticking out from the hidden compartment. It was grey, made from cheap plastic, and matched the one attached to the desk.

He went over and looked into it, not really knowing what he'd find. Small, dangerous creatures, perhaps? A boggart locked away ready to spring out at him in the form of Sirius's last expression? Harry's lip quivered, and he peered inside, and paused when he saw what the trey contained.

Time-turners.

A hollow laugh made its way out of his lips. Images of himself and Hermione escaping the hospital wing during the third year came back to him—but when he remembered that they had done all of that for Sirius, his throat became sore and his heart pounded weakly. When he had been looking for a cure, any cure, he hadn't been meaning this—but he couldn't be a chooser. Everyone was dying and it was his fault; and here it was, the best cure of them all, and he could change everything with a simple manoeuvre of his hands. Maybe he could change Sirius's fate once again.

Yes, perhaps he could.

He picked one of them up, feeling its weight and its coldness as if it hadn't been touched in a long time, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. His vision was blurry with tears: a part of him told him this was stupid and useless, but another part within him realised there was nothing else he could do.

He went to look down, seeing his pale reflection in its golden surface. Tiny Roman numerals winked up at him lifelessly, and he put both his hands at either end, ready to twist, and then the thing dropped from his shaking fingers and clanged horribly loudly against the hard floor and rolled somewhere out of sight.

_Shit._

He dived into the stock of time-turners again, picked one up, and then gave a jolted scream as it pinged out of his grip like a wonky magnet and hit him on the leg; he turned to catch it, felt it fly out of his grip once again, and then he yelled in frustration, stamped his foot, and turned to take _yet another_ device from the tray, and twisted its ends violently.

He lost count of how many times he did it. Three turns last time had given him an afternoon. His infinity of turns would give him _God_ knew how long—and he regretted it, almost, and the thing hung heavily in his hands—and he began to feel sick as the world twisted around him, and he wished that he could make it stop just to catch his breath.

But it wouldn't, and backwards he kept zooming.

He saw Voldemort's fury in the Ministry lobby with Dumbledore; Sirius's dead face mixing in with that of Cedric; the piece of parchment initiating Harry into the Triwizard Tournament; Sirius escaping on Buckbeak, aptly renamed to Witherwings; Sir Cadogan showing him, Ron and Hermione to their first Divination lesson of the year; Tom Riddle's mirthful face as Harry found Ginny lying weakly on the floor; Colin Creevey's horrified expression as he was almost smacked in the face with the rogue Bludger possessed by Dobby; Voldemort's mouth smeared with unicorn blood in the forest; the Sorting Hat ceremony; his Hogwarts letter; his horrid sixth birthday; his mother, twisting away from him as the spell battered her body; and then her words of love:

"_Harry, __Harry, __you are so loved, __so loved… __Harry, Mamma loves you…__ Dadda loves you… Harry, be safe, be strong…__"_

Harry's throat constricted, and then he saw a glimpse of a young boy with oily black hair lying in a field with a young redhead, admiring spinning jennies, and then…

And then…

A swirl of green, a hiss of a snake, and the Slytherin common room.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's notes: <em>**_I claim no ownership over the copyrighted _Harry Potter_ materials from which my fanfiction is derived. All rights and reserves go to J., author of the novels, and Warner Bros. which owns the film rights of the films upon which this work is partially based. I own my own creativity and personal interpretation of the works, characters, events, canon and concepts but nothing more. Unfortunately I wish the characters were mine, but they aren't!_

_But yes, this isn't a direct book-to-fanfiction or a direct film-to-fanfiction interpretation so I know that things aren't exactly "right". However, this is for creative purposes and I am very interested in the Slytherin Harry idea. I hope you like my take; there'll be more chapters. I have the second chapter complete and am half-way through the third, but you'll have to wait for those._

_As another important note, I have to tell you I have no idea where this story is going. It'll be based on the original material, of course, but so is most fanfiction. Think of this as canonical AU if you will; i.e. what could've happened. At any rate, **please review** so I know that you're happy with this and wish it to continue._

_Ciao for now!_


	2. II: As A Snake I Awoke

_**Please view with the following options for an optimal reading experience: the smallest font size; Sans-serif font; 3/4 story width; no story line spacing; and with the light brightness/contrast option. Thank you.**_

—x—

"—Gryffindors think they can handle, but it's a long shot. I haven't seen anything as miserable as Weasley's Keeping in the whole year—" Malfoy was saying when Harry blinked and realised that he was staring at a dim room. His eyes took in the long, sweeping tapestries woven together with every manner of green and silver, forming a divine snake with a forked tongue flicking at the air—it did this every few seconds with a low _hiss_; and then the button-pinched leather sofas and armchairs in the same dark shades which were pressed together in small groups huddled by the tall stain-glassed windows, against which water lapped quietly from outside…

Harry jumped a mile in the air like he'd been struck by lightning: he shot to his feet, whirling around like someone was casting Bat Bogey Hexes at him, and got to his hands and knees to pick up the tumbling time-turner which _must_ have clattered to the ground and rolled off under the couch by now. He poked his eye underneath, saw nothing in the warm light of the hearth and the lamps, and clambered back to his feet.

He went to push his spectacles back up his nose as he peered over the back of the sofa but hesitated when he felt nothing on his face. He frowned, went quite still, and looked at his hands; his eyes roamed around to spot the familiar round circles of his frames in the periphery of his vision. But they weren't there.

And he was seeing perfectly.

His heart gave a funny shudder. He turned slowly, remembering hearing Malfoy's sneering tone, and looked at the room around him. He almost fainted.

_Nobody had been in the Slytherin common room for over seven hundred years._

He gawked at the setting around him: Angular unlike the soft curves of the Gryffindor walls; lush greens and striking platinum as opposed to the warm tones of the Gryffindor reds and golds; polished leather and metal in contrast with the sanded wood and plucked fabric of the Gryffindor furniture; old instruments stacked atop ancient, priceless tables and cabinets instead of the rounded edges of the Gryffindor bookshelves; the quiet _shl, shl, shl_ of the Great Lake rather than the far-reaching caws of owls in the Gryffindor sky.

He was in the Slytherin common room. With Malfoy. And other Slytherins. And they weren't telling him to get out.

"Are you all right, mate?" Harry wheeled around to find Blaise Zabini regarding him cautiously. Harry's eyes widened incredulously; _he'd been sat next to Zabini_—and across from him was Malfoy with his arm slung around Pansy Parkinson's squat little shoulders. Both of them were looking at him curiously too, except Malfoy was more disbelieving rather than anything and Pansy looked as if she wanted to be as far away from Harry as possible.

"I—_what_?" Harry said stupidly. _What_ at what the hell was going on: _what_ at what the hell he was doing in the Slytherin common room, sat on a leather couch next to Blaise Zabini and having what looked like iced teacakes with Malfoy and his girlfriend? Pansy leaned into Malfoy and whispered something to him. She looked uncomfortable and her body language was very rigid: What on _Earth_ had Harry ever done to make Pansy Parkinson—Queen of All Things Snobby—uneasy around him? Hadn't she always given him her signature confidant sneer, followed by some sarcastic remark about his outdated glasses or his unruly hair?

_And why the hell was he in the Slytherin common room, and where the living fuck was that time-turner, and where had the Ministry gone and what about __Voldemort and Hermione and Sirius?_

Ah. Sirius. _Sirius._

Harry's heart gave a painful jolt and he had to sit down. The leather of the couch squeaked underneath him awkwardly, just another noise to add to the silence Harry had created in the common room as small groups of friends from lower years looked at him, startled. Well, this was all very new and it was all very painful. Harry had to turn his face away and stare into the fire with a trembling lip to stop himself from bawling his eyes out.

"Harry—" that was Malfoy "—are you all right? You're not crying, are you? Listen, I know you're gutted about your granddad and everything but I think it's time you sort of moved on—"

_Granddad?_ Was Malfoy playing some sort of sick joke? Sirius hadn't been his _granddad_—Sirius had been his _godfather_. Sirius had protected Harry by lending Hagrid his motorbike and taking him to the wretched Dursley house. Sirius had taken the fall for Peter Pettigrew's betrayal and had endured twelve years in Azkaban—Sirius had _escaped_ from Azkaban and had devoted himself to Harry once again, Harry Potter who was the son of Sirius's best friend James. And now Sirius was dead—killed by that _bitch_ Bellatrix Lestrange—and only moments ago…

_Voldemort._

Harry jumped up once more.

_Where was Vol__demort?_ He was fighting with Dumbledore: His magic was strong and dark, and Harry could've _sworn_ Dumbledore had looked strained from conjuring up that ice phoenix before Harry had run off… He had to get to him, get back to the Ministry and get Dumbledore and the others out of there. There were Death Eaters running around the place like nobody's business and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Neville and Luna—they were all there with Tonks and Lupin and the others. And Malfoy's _father_.

Did Malfoy know what his father was doing at this very moment? Did Malfoy know his father was running an errand for the Dark Lord himself that would see the ruin of the entire wizarding world? Of course he did; Malfoy was running up to be a Death Eater too, just like his good old dad.

A good old dad who'd fought Sirius—and distracted him. A good old dad who'd given Bellatrix the opportunity to sink her killing curse into Sirius's chest.

Harry's face went hot and his chest went very tight; he lunged forwards for Malfoy, grabbed him by the collar after elbowing Pansy out of the way, and began laying punches into his ferrety face. People started shrieking and yelling, and Harry had barely lifted his fist for a third strike when he was yanked backwards by Zabini who wrestled him into submission on the floor.

"What the _bloody hell's_ got into you?" Malfoy was stunned, his nose very obviously broken with a nasty nosebleed. His voice was muffled as he covered his face with his hands, his shirt—covered by his jumper—now stained red. Harry hissed at him and went for him again, but Zabini must've been a regular at the gym or something because his grip on Harry was like a vice. Malfoy started towards him with venom in his eyes, but Crabbe had muscled his way down the stairs and was holding him against the couch by his shoulders.

Despite the efforts to restrain Malfoy from retaliating, Harry knew that he was in a den of snakes. _Literally._ It made him angrier because he knew he was trapped—there had to be at least thirty people crowded around him, not to mention those coming out of the dormitories to see what was going on—and he wouldn't put it past the Slytherins to use some nasty curses on him.

He needed to get to Professor McGonagall and tell her that Dumbledore and several of his friends and the Order were in great danger; he needed to tell her that Voldemort was duelling with the headmaster at that very moment and his Death Eaters were ribboning the rest of the students into little strips of meat. He had to tell her this immediately before somebody died. Malfoy could wait. His father couldn't.

Harry started forwards again only to be blocked once again by Zabini. "Let me go," he barked, "I need to go. I need to see Professor McGonagall before somebody gets hurt by your stinking Death Eater parents."

Gasps and whispers started around him: Zabini's hold faltered for a second. Harry saw Malfoy frown as if confused, and then look to Zabini and then up at Crabbe. Pansy was looking around helplessly as if lost in a choppy ocean; she really needed to get out of there because even if Harry hadn't spotted anybody at the Ministry by the name of Parkinson—whom he'd seen at Voldemort's rebirth last year—he felt like headbutting her just as hard as any of the boys. And the rest of Slytherin house for that matter.

"What are you talking about?" Malfoy's eyes were wide as he leaned forward like he was trying to drill a very important point into Harry's head. "Everybody's fine."

"No," spat Harry hotly, "they're really not and it's all because of your families. Sirius Black _died_ tonight, Malfoy—and it was your fucking aunt who did it."

Chatter started once again: Sirius's name went around the room but was quickly replaced by whispers concerning Harry's sanity. Two Creevey lookalikes in the corner were saying excitedly that they knew the _incident with the mountain troll_ back in the first year was bound to affect him somehow. Harry didn't find that very funny—Sirius was more important than one time Professor Quirrell had dragged in a monster to try and kill him.

"Harry," said Malfoy, "how'd you know my uncle? Nobody's killing anybody, Harry—well, not on _our_ side, anyway."

Harry snarled. What did Malfoy mean, _on our side_? Harry wasn't on the same side as Malfoy. Malfoy was a dirty rotten Death Eater in training. Harry was against everything that Death Eaters stood for. Even if Voldemort _hadn't_ killed his parents, Harry would never see eye-to-eye with their Nazi regime. How could he openly or even privately support a group of people that discriminated and killed based on absolutely anything at all? How could he be on _Malfoy's side_ when _Malfoy's side_ consisted of people who'd cut so many innocent throats that they made the criminals at Guantanamo Bay look timid?

"Don't pretend to be stupid, Malfoy. You know Sirius is—_was_—my godfather. You know he did twelve years in Azkaban for my parents."

"_What?_"

Malfoy now looked completely out of depth: whatever Harry had just said to him looked as if it had gone totally overhead. Harry knew Malfoy was good at pretending to get himself out of sticky situations but it occurred to him that surrounded by a room full of Slytherins who'd gladly slice Harry's head right off, Malfoy really had nothing to be scared of. And he never passed up an opportunity to gloat at James and Lily Potter's deaths.

Something was up. This had to be a practical joke.

But the time-turner… What had happened there? Harry remembered the whole fiasco at the Ministry as if it had happened just a minute ago—and it had. He remembered seeing Voldemort unleash magnificent dark magic upon Dumbledore, who'd given him a blast of power back. The wizards had been duelling with fire and water and darkness and shields—things Harry could only _dream_ of performing—and then Harry had been hit hard in the chest by something much more powerful than magic… Something that was _sadness_ and _despair_…

And he'd run off, dodging blasts and incantations from Voldemort who in turn was apprehended by Dumbledore and a great phoenix of ice—and then the long corridor and journey back to the room with the veil, to the place where Sirius had fallen into… And seeing that had unsettled Harry and he'd used a, _"Crucio!"_ against Goyle's father who had been looking to perform the torture curse against Ginny to flatten her to the floor and make her dance in pain; Goyle had fallen down, his jaw horribly disfigured, but Harry wasn't healing—Sirius's shadow was thick over his heart and he'd turned, distraught, and he'd seen several of his comrades fall, and then he'd run off to that room with the weird brains…

And the time-turners. Ministry time-turners. Harry had picked up one, dropped it on the floor; a second escaped him as it was cast across the room by a faulty anti-repellent charm; and the third—third time lucky!—had glinted dully, almost _li__felessly_. It had been cold and heavy: it'd felt like doom, reminded Harry of the brass of the bell at Hogwarts in which crows had made a nest for the winter… And when it bonged, it sent a thrill throughout those birds which took off to the air in the image of fleeting couriers of death.

How many times had Harry turned that thing? Three times in the third year with Hermione. That'd given him a few hours…

Harry hadn't stopped turning this one. He'd been so distraught that he'd been twisting it over and over and over again to put things back to a time when Sirius was alive and his parents were alive and… and…

What if his wish had come true? What if time really had gone back? What if Sirius really was alive—unknown, but alive? And if he was alive, were his parents? His heart gave a tremendous thud which made his stomach flip. Hadn't Dumbledore said that death was inescapable? Buckbeak had escaped, after all—but that had been a time continuum within itself… Buckbeak had never died because Harry had saved it. Harry had always saved it.

Were things unavoidable in this hypothetical reality? Was there still that something to cause his parents' death? That… that _thing_ which Harry couldn't understand—that _thing_ which had singled _him_ out instead of Neville… Or were things different now? If Malfoy, who was stood in a room full of his own, was acting as if it was _strange_ that Harry would know Sirius, did that mean Sirius was a different person? Unimportant, no longer a shame on the family?

_Oh, God._ Harry's stomach dropped. Was Sirius now a scum-sucking Slytherin like the rest of the Black family? And was he in cahoots with Voldemort…?

Oh, that was a big one. Harry hadn't even begun to _think_ about Voldemort in this hypothetical situation. There were so many variables. If Sirius was alive, and not in Azkaban (which had gained him his infamy), and was a Slytherin, had Harry twisted that time-turner enough to relive those fateful moments of the night of his first birthday? Had Voldemort gone to his parents' place in Godric's Hollow, murdered them, yet failed to kill off Harry? Had he given Harry that lightning-shaped scar?

He felt the world turn sideways and he felt very sick all of a sudden. It all seemed like an impossibly stupid dream. But the scar would be the easiest and most solid proof that things were different and that he wasn't supposed to be in the Gryffindor common room with Ron, skiving off a Herbology double. Harry almost didn't want to look. It was all too much, too real—and it meant things were different now, that perhaps Sirius was alive, that perhaps his parents had never died at all…

Everyone had fallen silent in the common room as Harry pieced these things together. It was almost easy to see the stretch of emotion on his face but he was so stunned by this odd revelation that he appeared to be made of marble. Zabini relaxed, though still very much aware of Harry's movements, and rose with him as he got to his feet. Malfoy's eyes were one of the many pairs that travelled with him as he inched towards the mantelpiece and the grand mirror wreathed in silver leaves and berries that hung there.

He observed himself quietly. The others around him became an unimportant haze as he took himself in.

Clean, angular face; a very thin strap of dark, short hair inching from his sideburns, down both sides of his jaw and covering the edge of his chin; finely sculpted eyebrows; a fan of long, dark lashes; a pair of jewel-green eyes unhindered by spectacles; a mussed crop of short, dark brown hair that looked to be set in a very particular style that resembled a fashionable, bedhead comb-over of some sort; and his smooth forehead.

There was no scar. And he was in a Slytherin jumper with a Slytherin logo with a Slytherin tie. And there was no scar.

He collapsed to the floor. He didn't feel the swing of his fall, just how the polished ground greeted his side painfully. It didn't matter; it didn't register. It just _was_. Just…

He had no scar. And he was in Slytherin. And Sirius Black was relatively unknown. Sirius had never been framed for murder because there never had been a murder. There was no scar because there was no rebound; there was no rebound because there was no curse; there was no curse because there was no Voldemort—and no Voldemort because… because…?

_Oh, no. Nevil__le._

Had Voldemort gone to Neville's house instead? And had Voldemort killed Frank Longbottom before moving onto poor Alice: and had Alice put herself between the Dark Lord and her little boy and sacrificed herself for him…? And was Neville now the Chosen One; was Neville in that prophecy; did Neville have a scar on his forehead; could Neville talk to snakes; could Neville peek into Voldemort's mind?

Was Neville the Boy Who Lived?

Harry groaned. He groaned out of sickness. He groaned out of despair. He groaned because he'd put his pain onto Neville. He groaned because he'd destroyed Neville's family. Sadness welled up in him, but it was far greater than that of the death of his godfather—or perhaps it was the same, only projected onto a different person. He and Neville weren't very different; they were both Gryffindor orphans tied together by the same prophecy… And Harry had cut one of his greatest friends more deeply than he would ever have wanted.

Then it struck Harry like a sour aftertaste: If Neville was in his place, did that mean that Harry was in Neville's place? Had _his_ parents been tortured to insanity by Bellatrix?

He twisted his head to find the only person he really knew—Malfoy. The blond boy was staring at him, half baffled by everything Harry had done over the past five minutes and half concerned by his sudden fall. Blood was dripping freely over his shirt and jumper, and the silver streaks of his tie were dyed a sickly shade of crimson. He looked set to defend himself as Harry narrowed his eyes.

"You, Malf—_Draco_—I need to know something—" Harry gulped "—It's about my parents. Bellatrix Lestrange—did she torture them?"

"Wh…" Malfoy's eyes popped out of his head like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Why the _bloody hell_ would she do that, Harry? Have you gone mad? I swear you have, mate." He went over to Harry and looked at him dolefully. "You've been fiddling with those Weasley knock-offs again, haven't you? I told you they'd give you their faulty stock if you went and bought it—you should've nicked it like I said if you wanted it that badly. Almighty God…"

But Harry had zoned out on Malfoy. He was staring at the snake motif carved into the sloped wall hatting the fireplace. It was strange he thought rather randomly, how he could see so perfectly. He'd been sure that without his glasses everything was blurry and undefinable. Surely he hadn't worn jam jars prescribed by the NHS, though… And yet his parents weren't dead and Bellatrix Lestrange had left them well alone. They were alive and well.

Alive and well. _Alive and well._

He had parents. He had living, breathing parents; for that he began to cry.

It was happiness he'd never known. Nothing could feel this good. Not love, not sex, not one of those tickling charms Padma Patil had done in the crook of his arm in the fourth year. Not even a kiss with Cho Chang felt this good—not even the realisation that Sirius was alive. His heart swelled or at least felt like it: It didn't seem so bad that he was in Slytherin anymore and… and yes, it was selfish, so _very_ selfish of him but even Neville couldn't scratch the surface of his elation.

He buried his face into his hands and shook.

Malfoy looked around uneasily. The other Slytherins were just as clueless as he as to what the hell was going on and why Harry had developed a curious case of bipolar disease out of the blue: but he leaned down despite his broken nose—Blaise would fix it later with an episkey charm if he didn't bother to do it himself—and rubbed Harry's back. Harry responded by curling into a ball, his crying muffled. He didn't know what to say. Even Malfoy's slimy hands on him didn't bother him.

"They're alive," he said hoarsely, "they're fucking alive."

"Well, yes," began Malfoy awkwardly, "what else could've happened to them?"

_Oh, nothing,_ thought Harry, _they could've been tracked down relentlessly by a genocidal sociopath and murdered. My mother could've thrown herself between me and that killing curse and saved my life. I could've carried on as the Boy Who Lived. Something li__ke that could've happened._

But it made him wonder, sarcasm, grief and happiness aside, what really had happened. If they hadn't been destroyed by Voldemort and weren't tortured by Bellatrix, did that mean they were successfully in hiding? They had to have gotten away; back in… the Ministry, back when Harry had his scar, Neville's parents had received terrible treatment simply for being a part of that prophecy under Voldemort's interpretation—tortured for the whereabouts of James and Lily Potter. And they hadn't given it. Frank and Alice Longbottom had remained strong, well into Neville's fifth year and the fight at the Ministry when Harry had used the time-turner. Neville had been proud of that and so had Harry even if he'd never met the couple.

But James and Lily Potter didn't need protection—and if they did, it was holding immeasurably well because they were alive. But why would they need the protection if Neville's parents were dead, and he transformed into the boy with the scar? Wouldn't that mean his mother and father were out of the dark? That they were free citizens of Godric's Hollow as much as the rest of the witches and wizards of that place? And Voldemort… Harry shuddered.

Everyone here in his year group – Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle (who was looking over the side of the stairs with a stupid, sleepy expression), Zabini, Pansy, Millicent Bullstrode with her cat perched on her shoulders with narrowed eyes – looked to be at least sixteen. Harry knew what his own face of fifteen looked like and he recognised himself in the mirror as older. Maybe it was because he was more chic and elegant in his features having adopted a meticulous beauty regime but he was definitely more refined, definitely more adoptive of that manly edge as opposed to that lingering boyish puppy fat. Yes, they were definitely fifth year at the least—and that meant that Voldemort had returned. He had to have returned last year. He'd been reborn for over a damn year.

If Harry was a Slytherin and his parents were alive, there had to have been some sort of intervention. Harry theorised it was always his loneliness which gave him the courage he needed in order to do things he'd never normally do—like hitting back at Dudley that time at the zoo for being so rude to that snake—since nobody else ever stuck up for him, and he suspected that was why the Sorting Hat had put him into Gryffindor. He had some welly in him, as Hagrid would say.

And now as a Slytherin, with parents alive and well, it made Harry wonder what kind of upbringing he had. Was he courageous? Or was he resourceful and cunning? Or were those attributes just different sides of the same coin? He understood that despite their historic rivalry, Gryffindors and Slytherins were very much alike. Both were quite brash, sometimes carelessly so, but Gryffindors had boyish charm whereas Slytherins seemed able to weave their way out of any situation whether by foul play or simple charisma or talent. And there were certain talents and a kind of charisma about the Gryffindor house.

He certainly didn't _feel_ any different. This Harry he was now, it must have been the Gryffindor Harry put into the shoes of Slytherin Harry. What was Slytherin Harry like? He supposed he'd find out… But his most important question about this topic was his parents. Were they Slytherins, too? Had the time-turner performed more than one lifetime of magic? Had it altered the Sorting Hat's decisions back when Lily and James were sorted into their houses however many years ago?

He had so many questions and he wanted the answers. He wanted them particularly badly because something was off-key. A world in which Voldemort and the Potters existed peacefully—with no price over their head—was a world which disturbed him. It made him consider the new values he held.

Were his parents Voldemort sympathisers? No. They couldn't be. The thought knocked him sick. This was the man who had killed them without mercy, the man who'd destroyed the rest of the family and the order to which they'd belonged. This was the man who was about as welcoming as a freight train, the man who couldn't have cared less if he'd just slit the throat of a newborn baby wailing for its mother. This man had no place in his parents' lives other than staying damn well out of it.

Harry seethed at the thought, really quite angry; he'd just gotten them back. He couldn't lose them again, and to Voldemort of all people. He'd reset history to ensure it wouldn't repeat itself with another death of someone dear to him; history couldn't kick him with hard irony when he'd managed—_God_ knew how—to set things into a different mould.

Harry looked up at Malfoy spitefully before clambering to his feet. The blond followed him, patting him cautiously as if Harry were a very hot and dangerous live wire that could zap him at any moment. A toxic change looked as if it was taking place behind his smooth, pale features, twisting them from concern and quasi-embarrassment to bitterness. His nose was still broken, but he ignored it for the meantime, and gave Harry a pat on the back quite reluctantly.

"You want to lie down?"

Harry twisted his head, thinking he wouldn't like to lie down with _any_ of this lot—but in truth he knew he was a new personality in an unfamiliar world, and he'd just gone through so much. The dormitory would be the safest place to be for Harry, since it at least gave him a bit more room to breathe instead of being nestled too comfortably by these Slytherin twats. He nodded decisively at Malfoy, ogled the other occupants, and then followed him when he set off up the stone steps towards the sleeping area.

—x—

As it turned out, the Slytherin bedrooms weren't that different from the Gryffindor dorms: Each side had one door branching out into a larger room, with seven doors in that room around a circular vent of some kind which warmed the chilly chamber; behind each of those seven doors was a long hallway leading to yet another circular room, and in that circular room there were six doors leading off to other chambers.

Slytherin house had around just fewer than three hundred members in total, so it worked out that there were about 43 people per year—halved to roughly accommodate the boy-girl ratio at 21 boys and 21 girls per year group—with four people per bedroom. Sometimes there was an overcast of gender per year group, when they would be shifted to share rooms with other year groups of the same gender. This was the situation Harry found himself in when he followed Malfoy up the stairs and through the network of rooms.

Four elegant four-poster beds stood in a cross formation, reminding Harry for some reason of the Knights Templar. The beds were set with green and silver threads, snake and water formations making luscious patterns which were calming rather than sickening, but the curtains were simply heavy-duty and made of black velvet to block out the light. Harry was grateful for this as the red velvet of the Gryffindor curtains always managed to piss him off when he wanted a nice long lie-in on Saturday mornings. He found that the sheets and pillows were also green, which was nice he supposed, and then the floor itself which consisted of floorboards lacquered with white paint. It all gave a very regal impression.

He saw that his suitcase was pressed neatly at the end: _Potter,_ it said in bright red font. The trunk was the colour and texture of mahogany, reminding him of the old battered one back in the Gryffindor dorms—which wouldn't be there he thought glumly—while Malfoy's was the very image of Slytherin royalty itself. It was large and ornate, crafted from black elder wood with cherubic designs along the hinges and lip; his name—_MAL FOI,_ its French origin—was etched across the top. He went over to it and kicked it open (must've been used to being so inconsiderate, Harry thought) and pulled out his wand.

For a fleeting moment Harry thought he was going to perform a nasty bit of magic on him now that he had him alone with Blaise right behind him, but he simply pointed the stick at his own nose and said, with baited breath, _"Episkey!"_ He gave a howl as his nose righted itself and ceased to bleed. Harry stared at him, quite dumbfounded he'd have the guts to fix his own nose, but then whirled around and wondered where his own wand was.

As if he'd called for it he felt it pressed against his breast. He realised that Slytherins had wand pockets inside their jumpers which made him snort internally: but when he pulled out his wand, his face fell.

He should've expected it.

It wasn't _his_ wand. Well, it was, but it wasn't the long one with the funny ridges near the bottom. It wasn't the one which wasn't quite perfectly symmetrical like that of Malfoy. It wasn't the one with a certain charm to its antiqueness that Harry had always admired.

It was now this thing: black, twelve inches, perfectly straight with a perfect, circular guard. There was nothing remarkable about it apart from the strange streak of brilliant red that zipped its way up along the side. It reminded Harry of a bloody fang: it also reminded him of his old lightning scar, and the Gryffindor way of doing things—that was to say, rather haphazardly.

As an afterthought he wondered what its core was or what wood it was. He'd have to ask someone. Perhaps the Sorting Hat would know, or Professor Dumbledore… Dumbledore who was apparently as safe as a hand inside a glove.

Harry flopped onto the side of the bed and was playing with the wand when he realised that these bedrooms, unlike their Gryffindor counterparts, had windows. They were long and paned and you could see the occasional fish swim up to it since it was half-submersed by the lake. The sound of waves lapping against the windows was calming; Harry could see it definitely fit the rest of the mood of the Slytherin common room to which he hadn't really adjusted himself yet.

He missed the Gryffindor hangout. He often liked to look out the window on starry nights and work out which constellations were which. At least he had some new fish names to learn down here, though it was much less interesting.

"See," said Blaise thoughtfully, "what gets me is that bit of red in your wand, Harry." He too had flopped down onto his own bed carefully and was pulling his jumper over his head. Harry looked down at the stick but was momentarily distracted by Malfoy Scourgifying his own face of blood. Malfoy gave a sharp laugh, at which Harry frowned. It wasn't _that_ funny, what Blaise had said.

"Oh, lighten up," said Malfoy as he began to clean his jumper, "you've been really weird, Harry. I definitely think it's that shipment of Skiving Snackboxes you wanted. You put your name on the order form, didn't you? Little pricks probably packaged Forgetful Fancies instead. I don't know why you keep ordering from them. They're really not that good."

"They're not _little pricks_," Harry said sharply, "they're really funny."

Blaise's eyebrows went into his hairline and Malfoy stopped scouring the back of his pullover: Blaise looked uneasy whereas Malfoy looked annoyed. He _tsk_ed sharply and went back to scrubbing the material. "They're not funny _at all_, Harry—" his face seemed to twist, and he reminded Harry of a very angry weasel, "—remember when they put those Foldable Fireworks into the Dark Arts books last year? Mother was angry when I missed a whole _week_ of school because of that bloody hospital visit."

Dark Arts? Why was Malfoy looking at Dark Arts books? Oh, because he was a stinking Death Eater, that was why. "Serves you right for looking at Dark Arts books, anyway," said Harry simply. He heard Blaise scoff to his right.

"Yeah, yeah, we're not all as privileged as _you_, I get it." Malfoy made a dramatic gesture with his hands. "Mother _would've_ taught me a bit of Dark magic when I was younger but of course she's very uptight about her wand. Father was _completely_ out of the question so I had to settle for demonstrations."

_Demonstrations?_ What on Earth was Malfoy going on about? Oh, but Harry couldn't put it past his bloody family, showing a little boy all sorts of Dark magic. It was probably the Death Eater equivalent of teething or something. He almost snarled; he'd seen Dark magic used before. Mad-Eye Moody (though really Barty Crouch Jr. at that time, admittedly) had done that harrowing demonstration of the Unforgivable Curses last year—er, was that last year? Harry didn't know what year he was in anymore—which looked to have given Neville a funny jolt. And then the killing curse cast at his own parents, and the one that had hit Sirius in the chest—and then all sorts of Death Eater claims of being Imperiused…

Harry shuddered. Dark magic was no laughing matter. It was a dirty art, no better than the extermination methods used during the Final Solution of Hitler's rule. And it made him angry and _bitter_ to think that Malfoy had been shown this stuff as a child, never mind looking it up in _library_ books.

But why were there even books on Dark Arts in the library, anyway? Even the Restricted Section—which Harry had perused many a time at midnight during his younger years—wouldn't tell of exact spells to use. They were just horrifying accounts of murder, not the methods behind it. Or maybe Death Eater gits like Malfoy had a special pass for this material? Harry looked at his wand in frustration and ran his finger along its red streak.

He missed being a Gryffindor. He missed the Gryffindor common room. He wanted nothing more than to go back up there right now but judging from the sky it was midnight or thereabouts and prefects and teachers would be patrolling the hallways. He could just whip out the invisibility cloak—that was if he even owned it anymore—and make his way to the seventh floor but he wasn't sure if Mrs Norris or Peeves would be hanging about and what would he do once at the Gryffindor portrait? List off random passwords? Sneak in with someone else—someone stupid enough to go wandering around at night without a cloak?

No, it was just better to wait until morning and take Ron and Hermione to the side and explain his predicament to them. Even if this was an alternate reality they were still dear to him—not that he could be sure how he was to them. Neville was probably a part of that trio now. Ginny and Luna were probably add-ons as well. Maybe Seamus and Dean were in the group, too.

But something Malfoy had said irked him. _We're not all as privileged as _you_._

What had he meant by that? That Harry knew a vast array of Dark magic? That his parents had let him practise the magic as a young child growing up in a Gryffindor community? He had to be barking mad. His parents would never let him know anything of the sort; they'd most likely practise fire charms on Dark Arts books rather than the magic scribed in the books' pages. And he sure didn't know any Dark spells other than the ones Moody had taught them.

Harry scoffed and put his wand under his pillow. His tone was rather sharp as he pulled off his jumper and threw it into his trunk. Malfoy and Blaise looked at him in astonishment as he did this: "Aren't you going to fold them?"

"No, why? I'm only going to wear them tomorrow."

"Harry, it's _Saturday_ tomorrow. We have a Quidditch match."

Oh, did they? So he was on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Well, at least that was one thing he was familiar with, though he doubted he could get used to the Slytherins' cheap, dirty tricks such as feinting all over the place and being really nasty with the Bludgers. What position was he on? Malfoy was the Seeker or at least that was what had been. Harry always considered himself a better Seeker but that was because he was more honest and usually had a streak of luck and excellent teamwork by his Gryffindor friends. Could he be the Seeker for Slytherin?

He didn't like the thought. He didn't like the thought of doing _anything_ for Slytherin, but it was a breath of fresh air, something of familiarity he could grasp onto while he righted himself and got his bearings. He was already beginning to wish he was back in Gryffindor Tower with Ron and Hermione, scrawling out some last-minute Potions essay, already knowing Snape would give him a half-arsed mark for the simple reason that he didn't like his father.

"Oh, yeah," said Harry in a deadpan tone. Of _course_ it was Saturday tomorrow and _of course_ he was on Slytherin's Quidditch team. He didn't even ask who they were playing but he had a funny feeling it was Gryffindor. If it was he could always play really badly, let Gryffindor's Seeker catch the Snitch if Harry was indeed a Seeker. He hoped so. He liked the feeling of flying fast.

He tugged on his pyjamas quickly and curled up in bed, shutting the curtains tight. Even inside this warm black box he could tell that Malfoy and Blaise were exchanging looks. But he didn't bloody care. He'd wake up, have breakfast and play some Quidditch. And he'd make sure Gryffindor won. Being a nuisance on purpose to Slytherin's team members would let him blow off a bit of steam and perhaps but things in perspective. He'd be able to weigh up his new situation, drop in with Ron and Hermione and see how Neville was. Maybe they'd share some light on the life of Harry Potter, Slytherin extraordinaire.

For now he shut his eyes, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's notes: <em>**_I claim no ownership over the copyrighted _Harry Potter_ materials from which my fanfiction is derived. All rights and reserves go to J., author of the novels, and Warner Bros. which owns the film rights of the films upon which this work is partially based. I own my own creativity and personal interpretation of the works, characters, events, canon and concepts but nothing more. Unfortunately I wish the characters were mine, but they aren't!_

_But yes, this isn't a direct book-to-fanfiction or a direct film-to-fanfiction interpretation so I know that things aren't exactly "right". However, this is for creative purposes and I am very interested in the Slytherin Harry idea. I hope you like my take; there'll be more chapters. I have the second chapter complete and am half-way through the third, but you'll have to wait for those._

_As another important note, I have to tell you I have no idea where this story is going. It'll be based on the original material, of course, but so is most fanfiction. Think of this as canonical AU if you will; i.e. what could've happened. At any rate, **please review** so I know that you're happy with this and wish it to continue._

_Ciao for now!_


	3. III: As A Traitor I Played

_**Please view with the following options for an optimal reading experience: the smallest font size; Sans-serif font; 3/4 story width; no story line spacing; and with the light brightness/contrast option. Thank you.**_

—x—

Harry awoke rather suddenly when something next to him screamed a death metal rendition of _Ode to Joy_ in his ear.

"Where's the ketchup, Sergeant?" he said stupidly, sleep clogging his eyes, and then twisted to see a little tin box with a lid flapping animatedly like a mouth. He bashed it with his fist to shut it up and then heard a round of sleepy laughter around him; ripping open his curtains, greeted by darkness as opposed to morning light, he saw Blaise snorting at him and Malfoy sitting up with his hair sticking out at all angles.

"Like it?" asked Blaise, yawning. "I was getting sick of Muggle songs waking us all up in the morning."

Harry snarled at him and dived back under the covers, exhaustion in his bones. The exertion from yesterday's—_neverday's?_—activities at the Ministry seeped through him, or so he thought: but it was mental, not physical, and he realised it was only a lack of sleep that made him feel weary. He peeked back over the covers to see Malfoy traipsing off to use the toilet, and instead caught the quirked brows of someone he knew only very… _intimately_.

It was his other roommate, a seventh year sharing the room with himself, Malfoy and Blaise. Well, at least Harry knew he was definitely in year six now because Martin Vaisey, back when Harry had been Gryffindor Seeker during his first year, was a year older than him and a Chaser for the Slytherin Quidditch team. Harry could only ever recall Vaisey giving him a mouthful of elbow or a rib-ful of foot, and on one occasion he'd whacked Harry on the back of the head with a Beater's bat (stolen from his teammate, the arsehole) which so happened to be during the same match that Marcus Flint—five years older than Harry—had sent a Bludger right into Wood's chest, sending him careering to the sandy pit of the Quidditch pitch floor. Nothing could've been more dangerous than Quirrell's attempt at knocking him off his Nimbus Two Thousand, though; Harry supposed that if he had a wall of Slytherins backing him then he'd be as safe as Gringott's.

Vaisey flopped back down, but said, "What?" to Harry rather rudely when Harry called out his name.

"What time is it?"

"Time you stopped being a bloody idiot, Potter."

"Right, thanks for that insight, Vaisey, but I'd like to know why some twit thinks it's funny to wake me up at four o'clock in the morning."

By this time Malfoy had strolled back in, yawned widely and given Harry a curious look. "You're getting Alzheimer's," he said with a wrinkled nose, "you might want to get checked out."

Harry didn't bloody well want to get checked out: in fact, he wanted to know the time and why he'd been woken up so early—he wasn't, after all, going to lie and fit in with his new group of friends just because this was how it was in this world. So what if it was a miracle he'd woken up perfectly intact with no cut throat? He owed nothing to these people: if anything they ought to show him a bit more lenience.

"It's half six," said Malfoy, "the time you always wake up. You get out of bed, hog the bathroom for an hour and a half, get dressed and go down to the Great Hall and eat breakfast with the rest of us before we go to lessons at nine. In this case, we go down to the pitch at nine, warm up for an hour, and then play our match. Or, you know, is that a bit too difficult to remember?"

"No," said Harry coolly, "thanks for that. I'll just get some more sleep. 'Night."

He had barely sagged back down onto his pillow when Malfoy was tearing the curtains open with panicked abandon. "No," he said sternly, "come on—I don't know what the _hell's_ gotten into you, but you've got to get up and get ready. Ever since Terry Boot snatched the Snitch out of my hand last match I've been having terrible nightmares about losing to Ravenclaw again. Losing to Gryffindor will just be mortifying."

Ah, so they _were_ playing Gryffindor. Harry felt a smirk rise up: he'd love to make a mess out of Slytherin's team, even if he was on it. And he couldn't wait to see who he'd be up against—Katie, Angelina? Fred and George had made their magnificent exit last year, if that was even canonical anymore. Maybe there'd be new talent up there: Ron liked to play at home, and Ginny was great on a broom, two more Weasleys to replace the last lot. Thinking about his old housemates made Harry brim with excitement, and he quickly got out of bed and strode off to the bathroom much to Malfoy's relief.

After using the toilet he jumped in one of the two cubicles which had his and Draco's name on it. Well, _that_ was sort of… _really gay_—though, admittedly, it did look like graffiti so it was probably a joke. He whipped through the catalogue of showering products from shampoos to exfoliating scrubs to yellow loofahs that smelled of curry for some reason: none of these could be his. He only kept a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner and a bar of soap in his shower. The rest of it had to be Malfoy's, which Harry didn't find too strange: he'd always thought of him as a pretty-boy prat—though he wasn't sure that the loofahs were supposed to have that curry smell.

He whipped shampoo and conditioner into his hair, followed by some shower gel and after washing himself clean he stepped out and dried himself off with a towel. He scrubbed at his teeth—which were… fantastically straight, _much_ to his surprise (a few of the bottom ones were usually crooked, a fault of his palate)—then looked at himself in the mirror and frowned when he saw nothing less than absolute immaculateness.

Well, this was all too weird. His eyes glinted at him in an alien manner, but his attention was caught by someone walking past the door in the bedroom. He did a double take when he saw Pansy Parkinson stroll over to Malfoy's bed in a purple dressing gown, and watched as Malfoy gave quite a rude little slap to her behind before pulling her in for a long, noisy kiss. Harry pulled his face, feeling quite sick, yet strutted back in the room with the towel around his waist and not caring if Malfoy noticed him or not.

But he did care about Malfoy, his new roommates and Pansy seeing him naked: he shifted behind the curtains of his bed and began to pull on his green and silver Quidditch robes, pausing when he heard Pansy make a hushed remark:

"Draco, is there something wrong with him? Is he still being weird?"

"Not sure," muttered Malfoy between kisses, "think he ordered some faulty sweets from Fred and George Weasley. Sent him—" _smooch_ "—a bit funny."

_I am not_ a bit funny, huffed Harry, _just normal compared to you, you git._

—x—

Being in Slytherin Quidditch robes made Harry deeply uncomfortable, he realised. They were made of the same material as Gryffindor's but there was a silent stigma stitched into the cloth and leather that nearly made his skin itch. He was irritable all the way to the Great Hall as the realisation dawned on him that this was all quite real—that he had gone back in time and he had saved Sirius. Jumping in the shower and pulling on the uniform had woken him up, and with breakfast on its way (he'd gotten to the Great Hall very early) it only allowed him to contemplate things more.

Several ghosts trickled into the hall and sat in the teachers' chairs on either side of a very lonely Professor Trelawney. Harry had had enough of her weirdness to last him a lifetime so turned away and stared into the bright flames of the fire next to the Slytherin table. It only prompted him to think of Sirius, really, which was a dilemma in and of itself because Sirius shouldn't have carried any emotional attachment.

And in a way, he didn't. This surprised Harry. He really thought he'd break down and cry now that he was away from the Ministry and in safe hands, but it didn't seem to be the case. He did feel sad but it was more a lingering ache than anything, like a heartbreak long passed. His fingers came to his temples as he tried to sort through his feelings, but it was no use: it was frustrating more than anything to know that he was literally incapable of caring about Sirius as much as he knew he really did.

This Sirius was different, though: It wasn't a Sirius who'd fought with him at the Ministry. It was a Sirius who was tucked away somewhere. Maybe he changed into a different animal, a duck-billed platypus or a white tiger or a blue tit. Maybe he wasn't even an Animagus. It occurred to Harry that he really didn't know this man.

Then it occurred to him that he really didn't know his parents, either. It appeared they were alive, which was happiness Harry couldn't describe, and yet they were alien to him in a way now that he understood Sirius wasn't really Sirius. How were they? Were they cold and cruel and haughty-taughty like the Malfoys? Not that Harry had ever known their personalities, really: but he'd always had a feeling that they were wonderful people. His mum had saved his life in return for her own, hadn't she—and his dad as well. They had to be great people. Maybe these new parents would be great people, too.

He was excited to meet them, and he was wondering exactly when he would when plates toppling with breakfast goods suddenly appeared on the tables. Much to his surprise, Harry was famished: It wasn't the exhaustion from the Ministry that got him, since he didn't even feel it because that exhaustion had never really _been_ in the first place, but more like a growing boy's appetite. He wolfed down several sausages, eggs and pieces of toast with a wash of pumpkin juice before a large flock of Ravenclaws entered and sat down at their table.

Harry looked over at the Gryffindor table to find it the least full. He grinned because he knew that Gryffindors weren't very good at waking up early, were more night owls than anything else: but lo and behold, there was Lavender nestled with Romilda Vane and what looked to be Luna sporting Gryffindor colours. Was Luna a Gryffindor now, Harry wondered—no, still the Ravenclaw crest sewn into the back of her puffy blue bomber jacket. Harry strode over to them confidently and sat down next to them.

"What the _bloody hell_ are you doing?" screamed the pretty Romilda. She and the rest of the girls moved further down the bench, much to the annoyance of several third years, drawing the attention of the other people of the room. Harry looked around, saw that at least fifty people were watching the commotion, and then got to his feet embarrassedly.

"I—Sorry, Romilda."

And then he turned around and went back to the Slytherin table where Malfoy was guffawing.

The look on Romilda's face had been terrifying—almost like Harry had been her boggart. That was strange, he thought, Romilda had never even given him the time of day before: and now he came to think of it, even Luna's usually dreamy expression appeared startled along with Lavender's look of dismay. Why were these girls afraid of him? He was on good terms with Lavender, and Luna was one of his greatest friends—Luna had been fighting with him at the Ministry, for goodness's sake!

But, ah, this was a different plane of reality, he reminded himself. So far none of the existing history had proven true here: and Pansy was afraid of him, after all, jittery around him. Did he scare girls? Did he do things to upset them? Malfoy found it funny, whatever it was.

"That," Malfoy said with a snort, "was good. I didn't think you'd have the gall to go back to Vane after you cockslapped her, Harry. She's not bad, though—_Ow!_—" Pansy scowled at him "—_For fuck's sake, woman!_"

"Well, I'm sick of you making comments about other girls," hissed Pansy, "especially Gryffindors. You're supposed to think about beating them, not staring at Katie Bell's arse all match!"

"Yes," said an oily voice behind Harry. His stomach dropped as he recognised the deadpan tone. "You'd do well to keep your eyes on the Snitch, Malfoy. Potter can't knock every opposing Seeker down with a Bludger for you." Harry turned to see Snape stood before the fire, his long fingers tucked into the pockets at the front of his long black gown. Well, he was still into priest fashion, it seemed. He turned to Harry indignantly. "And you," he said, "were told quite specifically to stay away from Romilda Vane after last year's rather _disreputable_ act. I don't know what sort of fascination you have with her, but keep it private. Slytherin's reputation has suffered enough."

Well, that was the most civilised thing Snape had ever said to Harry: he felt a strange buzzing sensation when he realised that he was at least liked by his least favourite professor in some capacity. Perhaps his dad wasn't the git Snape had reported him to be, after all.

"Anyway," Snape went on, "Potter, Malfoy—yourselves, Crabbe and Goyle are to report to me after the Quidditch match. Your Potions marks this week were horrendous and I don't care if you were having fun throwing my limited supply of Puffskein peel around, you need to make up unless you want to fail the module before Christmas."

Harry groaned—as did Crabbe and Goyle, who were also decked out in Quidditch gear (_God,_ Harry groaned, _who let these buffoons on the team?_)—but Malfoy had a wicked grin, and he nodded fervently before Snape strode away to the teacher's bank that stretched the width of the room with a massive Christmas tree behind it. Harry knew he'd been bad at Potions, but not as bad as Crabbe or Goyle: Crabbe and Goyle were so bad that their names should've been on the grading list, and scoring a C or a G for any subject should've been synonymous with failing.

"But Draco," said Crabbe from Harry's side, "Snape doesn't teach us Potions this year."

Malfoy glared at him, then punched him on the arm as if to get him to shut up. Harry, though silent, had a brain which was whirring suddenly, taking in the information. If Snape wasn't teaching Potions, then who was? And if Snape wasn't teaching Potions, what _was_ he teaching? He had barely opened his mouth to ask when there was a great round of applause and catcalls and whistles—Harry turned to see, at the entrance to the Great Hall, the Gryffindor Quidditch team enter.

His eyes popped open as he saw the seven individuals he'd be competing against: Ginny, Ron, and Dean were the only people he knew personally—behind them were Cormac McLaggen, a slimy blond git who'd do well to keep his pants on; Demelza Robins, a girl Harry had only ever seen out on the pitch, dodging Bludgers like it was her day job; Jimmy Peakes, a broad-chested boy who Harry had played a game of Exploding Snap with once; and Ritchie Coote, a tall mixed-race boy with a shock of dark, curly hair who was effortlessly great at almost every subject in the curriculum. Katie Bell, who in Harry's opinion indeed had a fine behind, hung around as reserve with hard grit in her eyes; he was actually very surprised to see that she'd been replaced—had Gryffindor's captain found someone better than her?

_Well,_ Harry mused, _that lot can handle themselves well._

He grinned wildly at Hermione who was clutching onto Ron's arm in an attempt to steer away from McLaggen. Ron, in the meantime, had a fat smile on his face. Harry suspected that it was Hermione's closeness more than anything, as he knew Ron had always said Slytherin and Quidditch was like casting, _"Incendio!"_ at Aragog to get him to go away—that was, Ron couldn't have been very pleased to be up against Slytherin for Quidditch unless he was suddenly the world's best player on the world's best broom. What he didn't know was that he was in for a nice surprise as Harry was planning to sabotage Malfoy and the rest of the team so that Gryffindor won.

Harry jumped to his feet, startling Malfoy who was hissing wildly at Crabbe, and made his way back to the Gryffindor table. He made sure to avoid Romilda and the others, but when he approached Ron and Hermione and the rest of the team who were surrounded by a mass of other Gryffindors, everybody went silent.

Harry looked around uneasily, and said with a shaky smile: "All right, Ron, Hermione?"

Ron's mouth gaped before quickly shutting; he narrowed his eyes, and sneered: "Piss off, _Potter_. Come to taunt us? Don't even bother; we'll smash you this match." Harry was taken aback; his eyes went wide and he fumbled with his words. His default with Ron would be a scowl or something equally nasty since he and Ron often got on each other's nerves, but this was different because he understood that this was a Ron who wasn't his best friend, and this was a Hermione whose face was taut and cold towards him.

"Right," he said weakly, and turned back around. He really wanted to sit down with them and talk things out, and explain what had happened to him and that none of this was really real at all—but it wasn't that simple. He was beginning to understand that in saving Sirius, he was sacrificing other aspects of his life. He didn't _want_ Malfoy, he just wanted Ron and Hermione, but it looked to be an impossible dream.

Well, even if they didn't reciprocate his feelings, they would always be his best friends: and Harry wasn't the Slytherin Harry that strutted around this alternate world. He was the old Harry who wore Gryffindor colours with pride, and had a boring old wand and scruffy hair and round spectacles. He'd get them back, and they'd all be in the common room (well, if he was even allowed in the Gryffindor common room anymore) and they'd have pumpkin juice and parties and do homework together. Things would be right as rain in no time.

And yet Harry wondered that if he was a completely different person, were Ron and Hermione as well? Had their histories been changed, caught up in the whirlwind brewed up by the flap of the butterfly wings that Harry had set into motion? Was Ron still poor, had more siblings than you could count on one hand, a son of a father who had a bizarre obsession with Muggle bits and bobs? Was Hermione still acing classes, still had a problem with her front teeth, still had Muggle parents?

It boggled his brain to think about.

If Malfoy had been jubilant at Harry's approaching of Romilda Vane, then he had now died and gone to heaven. The rest of Slytherin house were looking at Harry, some gawking, some laughing, some clapping, some hooting—some even just whispering. But when Harry flopped back down next to Malfoy, there was a great furore and round of applause, followed by people trying to high-five him and patting him on the back.

"Brilliant," Blaise was saying with hiccupped laughter, "just amazing."

But Harry didn't feel brilliant—in fact he felt rather depressed like someone had just stuck the end of their wand in his happy little bubble created by seeing his Gryffindor friends. Sitting next to people he didn't like and couldn't stand made him realise how very lonely he was beginning to feel. He had nobody, really, nobody except Not-Really-Sirius and his parents. Should he even expect anything of his parents? He didn't want to think about it; that'd simply crush him.

Thankfully he was soon distracted by Malfoy standing up a couple of minutes after nine: The entire Slytherin table went quiet, and the other houses stooped to low murmuring to hear what was going on by the fireplace. Several _whoops_ later, Malfoy bowed, and then made a very grave face that looked suspiciously as if he was trying to contain his laughter.

"Well, my good women and men—" _"—my good Slytherins!"_ interjected a seventh year girl, much to everyone's amusement "—yes, my good Slytherins—thank you, Rachel. Today marks a very important occasion for many of us—" (_"Huzzah! Hoorah!"_) "—but let us not forget that our opponents are cunning and wily. I don't doubt that you remember last match's foul play on Ravenclaw's part—" (_"Boo!" "Get lost, Malfoy, you git!"_) "—now now, don't be rude—so it is with absolute sincerity that I, Draco Malfoy, Seeker for Slytherin five years in a row, announce that today's match will bring about a new era in Quidditch at Hogwarts—" _You can bet on it,_ Harry thought "—for today we face most ruthless opponents—" (_"Hiss! Boo!" "That's right, Malfoy!"_) "—opponents with the looks of a rat and the morals of an alley cat—opponents known as _Gryffindor!_"

The way Malfoy said the house name made Harry bristle: it was a low rumble in his throat, coughed up like phlegm; the other Slytherins recognised his tone too and began to pretend to spit on the floor in the direction of Gryffindor's table. Hufflepuff, who were caught between the two rivalling houses, looked as if they were stuck in No Man's Land, and turned to one another with bewilderment and fatigue.

Ravenclaw, on the other hand, were cheering Gryffindor on—Malfoy's ill words towards their house hadn't done Slytherin any favours. Snape's long face clearly showed his disapproval of Malfoy's speech, no doubt thinking about the further damage to the house reputation he'd just caused: McGonagall, however, looked jostled and disliking of Slytherin all together, but as she called out to her house to tell them to quieten down, her eyes glinted dangerously. She looked set to turn Malfoy back into his ferrety form.

Malfoy rose to his feet, as did Blaise and Vaisey, and for the first time Harry saw his new Quidditch team stood together: Malfoy, the Seeker; team Captain Ishmael Urquhart, a brown-skinned Chaser with handsome features; Vaisey, a Chaser; Blaise, also a Chaser; himself and Crabbe as Beaters; and finally Goyle, the Keeper.

They were all well-kitted in their uniforms with the exception of Crabbe, who looked like he could do with losing a pound or twenty and Blaise, whose jodhpurs were a little small for him around the ankles because he was so tall. With one more eye-rollingly typical round of applause from the rest of the house, they all strode out together—Harry traipsing behind them, of course, with a sour look on his face.

"Don't listen to Snape," said Malfoy in Harry's ear, "knock that Bludger around at as many players as you can. I quite like looking at Katie Bell's arse."

_Oh,_ thought Harry darkly, _I will._

—x—

Conditions outside were cold but sunny, giving Harry plenty of light. It felt weird, not having to slip goggles over his eyes to protect himself or his glasses from the usual winter weather, and during the hour practise he played considerably well against the reserves. Surprisingly the Beater's bat felt snug in his hand, and the muscles of his right arm were well-developed as he swung it around experimentally; resisting the temptation to thwack Malfoy around the mouth had been hard but he'd vented some of his frustration by wreaking havoc on a bag of old tennis balls which were enchanted to zoom back as if they enjoyed being beaten into submission countless times.

"Playing well," said Vaisey, "good thing you went to the hospital wing to get patched up last match, eh? Would hate to think Ravenclaw were clever enough to break your arm forever, slippery little bastards." He took a swig of water and looked out, from the doorway of the changing room, at the stands which were almost full. "Oh, bloody hell—_look at them._"

Harry indeed turned to look at them, and beamed when he saw that Ravenclaw had bewitched their quarter of the pitch to flash from blue and silver to red and gold in time with the chants of, _"Go, go, Gryffindor!"_ Slytherin had taken the initiative to try and out-do this joined effort by Ravenclaw and Gryffindor with heavily saturated house colours that bled into Hufflepuff's area; the Hufflepuffs were elegantly indifferent to this teaming-up and feuding as they had already won against Gryffindor but lost to Ravenclaw; and yet they understood that Slytherin were dangerous opponents and could very well knock Hufflepuff out of the league later in January.

Looking at the boards, Harry realised that Quidditch team rankings were vastly different: Gryffindor had already lost a match against Hufflepuff and were now onto their second match which was pitched against Slytherin; Slytherin had lost to Ravenclaw but were now set up against Gryffindor and, in the future, Hufflepuff; and Ravenclaw had won both their matches against Hufflepuff and Slytherin so it was really down to the outcome of this match to say who was winning the league. As it currently stood, Ravenclaw were well in the lead.

Harry leaned against the end of his Firebolt—a welcome familiarity though he wasn't sure how he'd gotten it—that outdid all the others' brooms. Malfoy eyed his enviously, clinging onto his Nimbus, but wasn't too bothered considering Ginny was doing a round on a much-battered Comet that seemed to be as much an addition to her body as an arm or a foot. Harry wished her luck, knowing how difficult it could be in the Seeking position—against Malfoy, too. No doubt the blond little twat would resort to calling her all sorts of names as they went neck-and-neck. Harry would make sure to accidentally swing his bat the wrong way for that one.

"Right," said Urquhart with great gusto, "Potter, Crabbe, good luck with the Bludgers. No doubt Potter's had a bit of a scare since those Ravenclaw dicks—well, you know how it went." Harry turned his eyes away, really not very interested in any comraderie they supposedly had going. "Myself, Vaisey and Zabini have been practising our rounds all month for this lot, so we're fairly well-rehearsed—" which they were "—but Weasley looks set to defend those posts. No wonder, they're worth more than his house put together." Harry's face flushed hot, but the others laughed. Urquhart turned to Blaise with a stern nod. "Make sure to wiggle your arse in his face as much as you can, yeah? After that French bit during the Tournament I'm betting Weasley'll do anything for a Veela—" Blaise was part Veela? "—even a bloke." Blaise nodded; he seemed dead-set on winning. "Goyle, you'll be okay for the posts. Gryffindor's Chasers are so awful that they had to rely on Ginny Weasley catching the Snitch to scrape them 150 points, and even then they didn't win—and that was against _Hufflepuff_." Goyle gave a firm jolt of the head, at which point Urquhart rounded on Malfoy and his lazy swagger. "And _you,_" he scorned, "Vaisey said he heard you and Pansy at it this morning, so keep your cock in your pants and your eyes off Katie Bell's backside if she gets brought on, and you should be all right for the Snitch since you've got a better broom than their Seeker."

"Well," drawled Malfoy, "it's a shame we can't delay this match until after Christmas, isn't it? I'd really be _quick on my toes_ then, wouldn't I?"

There was a baited silence that Harry didn't understand, followed by laughter and clapping on the back. Malfoy's gaze met Harry and he gave him a wink as if it was a secret shared between best friends. Apparently, Malfoy was best friends with the entire Quidditch team too because Harry hadn't the faintest idea what the other boy meant by his remark. He turned to Vaisey as they filed out to the Quidditch pitch, and whispered quietly.

"What does he mean by that, _until__ after Christmas?_"

He was surprised when Vaisey shot him a dark look with raised brows, but had no chance to question him further because the bright morning light exploded in front of Harry's eyes and pushed him into the Quidditch arena. Taking in a deep breath and whetting his lips, Harry ascended into the air.

—x—

Zachary Smith, whom Harry loathed quite openly, was commentating: Lee Jordan was sat next to him with a grumpy frown, being swatted at quite occasionally by McGonagall, who on more than fourteen occasions had to grab the boy to prevent him from yanking the magical microphone away from Smith to scream his undying appraisal for Gryffindor's playing. From up above, Harry laughed as McGonagall's hat tumbled onto Dumbledore's lap beside her. Dumbledore himself was holding his chest to contain himself, which made Harry quite warm inside.

"Shit—_Harry!_"

Harry swerved just quickly enough to bring his bat up in order to reflect a Bludger aimed right for the crown of his head. His heart thudded rapidly in his chest as he realised how close he'd really been to being quite painfully murdered, as the hair on top of his head was squashed down by his bat. The ball went careening off to the Hufflepuff stands, where it knocked Hannah Abbott in the chest and winded her quite violently.

"Red card!" screamed Dean from below, Chasing Vaisey for the Quaffle. Harry remembered that Dean was a West Ham football fan, but was distracted when Malfoy zoomed past and shouted something suspiciously like: "Good one, send them all to the hospital wing so they can't play against us in January!" Harry snarled as he went past, and then went higher to look over the pitch and to get his bearings on what was going on.

Gryffindor were winning, sixty to fifty, but both Keepers and sets of Chasers looked strong. Goyle, Harry discovered, was built like a brick house and hadn't even flinched when the Quaffle had bounced off his chest more than five times; Harry had had to pretend to buck on his broom and send a Bludger his way to get him to clear the goalposts at which point Demelza Robins had scored ten points, looped around to catch the Quaffle and sent it back for Dean to send the ball home again. Goyle, understanding a Bludger was at fault, had given Jimmy Peakes the world's most venomous glare before Harry had made another Bludger bang around the goalposts, knocking him funny with the loudness of it, allowing Gryffindor to get another two goals; this time, Ritchie Coote was incurring of the Slytherin Keeper's wrath. Harry would have to remember to warn Coote to stay well away for a good while.

Madam Hooch, however, had hawked in on Harry's dodgy playing and had called him down during a time-out to ask him what was going on. He'd looked at her innocently, telling her his arm was still a bit rickety after last match's incident with Ravenclaw, and had then gone back up into the sky. He resolved to play it a bit more subtly this time, and even though Hufflepuff were now openly booing Slytherin for Harry's maiming of Hannah Abbott, he could say it was an honest mistake.

"Slytherin showing their true colours once again, attacking future opponents Hufflepuff to knock us—er, them—out of the league because they can't handle the fact Gryffindor's getting its first win of the season—"

"SMITH!"

"Right you are, Professor, right you are! Nothing but an honest mistake on Potter's part, of that I'm sure—yes, Lee, thanks for that, Lee now openly in support of Hufflepuff—"

"_Go, go, Hufflepuff!"_

"JORDAN!"

"Right again, Professor, back to the game it is—and Potter circling around like a hawk, who next to target I'm sure, could be Weasley and Weasley, could be Thomas who has the Quaffle firmly in possession again—_OUCH! CRABBE KNOCKS THOMAS RIGHT IN THE HEAD, THOMAS DROPS THE QUAFFLE, SLYTHERIN CAPTAIN UR__QUHART RUSHING TO GET IT, HE HAS IT, THOMAS FALLING TO THE GROUND, URQUHART GOING FOR GOLD, KEEPER WEASLEY LOOKING A BIT SICK AFTER CRABBE'S BLUDGER—OH! _Urquhart scores, draws the match!"

An explosion of noise came from the Slytherin stands, mixed in with Malfoy whooping obnoxiously above Harry, who was watching medics rush onto the pitch to collect Dean and his broom. The match stopped for several seconds, Ron righting himself again, and then Katie Bell joined the field. Blaise hissed somewhere below Harry but kept his temper and whipped right in to take back the Quaffle from Gryffindor possession.

Crabbe wheeled up next to Harry, groaning because he'd inadvertently brought on Gryffindor's best Chaser (Harry wasn't surprised, considering Crabbe had never shown any signs of intelligent life). "I was aiming for his arm, not his fucking head! Oh, for God's sake!" He zoomed off again to take care of another wheeling Bludger which had been propelled by Coote to go right for Vaisey. Harry, on the other hand, thought Crabbe's mistake was brilliant: Katie would be bringing in goals until the cows came home. Spinning around, he descended a bit lower to see who else on his own team he could incapacitate when the glint of something gold caught his eye, and instinctively he screamed out:

"The Snitch!"

The crowd pulled in an excited gasp, drowning out Harry's loud moan as it came to him that he should've stopped himself from shouting to gain Ginny's attention; Malfoy was also streaking after the tiny ball, face like a feral cat and eyes slanted like those of a snake. His hand was outstretched though he was still half the pitch away, and then Ginny suddenly turned downwards into a steep nosedive, pressing her mouth to the wood of her broom, and she was closing in, Malfoy inches behind, and everyone had their eyes trained on the two of them as they scrapped for the ball, not noticing how Urquhart and Vaisey and Blaise were putting the Quaffle through Ron's hoops time and time again, Ron himself having been captivated by the fierce competition between Malfoy and his sister—

She reached out her hand at the same time that Ron screamed, and the Snitch became nestled in her shaking hand, and she pulled up suddenly, followed by a raging Malfoy, and cheered along with the rest of the deafening stadium—and Harry's heart swelled with pride, thinking that Ginny had played brilliantly as well as the rest of Gryffindor team, and it was too bad that he wasn't on it because he wanted so badly to share their victory with them.

But something broke his bubble again, and as Smith's voice boomed out around the arena, Harry's heart fell.

"Gryffindor ends the match by Ginny Weasley's hand—but Slytherin win by a margin of ten points, thanks to Chasers Zabini, Urquhart and Vaisey."

The stadium went quiet, and then Harry yelled, frustrated and annoyed and so _fucking_ pissed off that he couldn't even do this thing right for his own _house_. He descended, letting his broom lie in the sand, and stormed off towards the changing room much to Slytherin's amazement. He really didn't want to be in Slytherin company anymore, he thought; he was just going to get changed, find some Gryffindor robes he could put on, and go and find the Room of Requirement so he could punch something into blissful oblivion while feeling like he really was a part of the losing house.

He quickly got changed, ripping his Quidditch garments off and throwing them on the floor; and then it occurred to him he hadn't a change of clothes because the robes were what he'd put on that morning. Frustrated, he kicked a shower stall, and then turned to see an old wooden door on the other side of the room which connected to the opposing team's changing rooms. He fumed as he went through it, but lightened up as he saw a small batch of Gryffindor robes. Lady Luck was on his side today—or maybe she was simply making up for the lousy job she'd made out of the Quidditch match.

The pants and shirt fit him all right, though the jumper with its red lining and lion crest was a bit too small; he simply rolled up the sleeves and stretched the woolly material to loosen around his neck and shoulders. He did up his Gryffindor tie haphazardly, stuffing it down his chest, and grinned at himself in the mirror. Simply put he looked like someone had taken him, Gryffindor Harry, the _real_ Harry, and had given him a nice facial makeover. He then ran his hands through his hair, making it messy as it usually was, and patted himself on his cheeks.

Well, that was a quick remedy, even if it wasn't permanent. He felt much better and much more comfortable in these off-sized clothes than he did in those perfect Slytherin garments. He turned back through the door to collect his shoulder bag and wand when he heard the commotion from outside. Malfoy, leading the other team members, came through the door, chatting happily and laughing with one another—and then Blaise gasped sharply, and Malfoy jumped.

"What the…" was all Vaisey managed.

Harry, head held high, ignored them and went to walk right past when Malfoy stuck out his arm and trapped him. There was colourful hatred in his face, which Harry couldn't care less about, and then there was pain, which Harry _could_ care less about, as he was pushed against the hard, tiled wall.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're wearing?"

"I think they're Hufflepuff Quidditch robes," said Harry dryly, "but I'm not sure. Think you could help me out?"

Malfoy went red in the face. It wasn't a nice effect—it quite drew up the image of young Dudley, blond and red-faced, who Harry supposed was the Muggle equivalent of his housemate. Both were equally spoiled, from snotty-nosed families, extremely house-proud in some capacity, and thought too much about themselves and not enough about other people. Unlike Dudley, however, Malfoy was in possession of a wand and, by extension, a vast array of magic spells. He wondered if they were about to re-enact Lockhart's duelling club of the second year when there was a high, uninterested tone between the two of them, followed by a mass of black.

"Well, well," said Snape, "arguing again are we, boys? While I'm sure the both of you are going to have very successful careers in the professional boxing industry, I might ask you to be so gracious as to stop beating your chests for more than ten seconds." _It's him with the problem, not__ me,_ Harry thought snidely. "And yes, Mister Malfoy—" he blinked lifelessly at the seething boy "—while I acknowledge that Mister Potter is wearing Gryffindor garb, must I bring it to your attention that not even two weeks ago you were discovered in Ravenclaw uniform, complete with a skirt and stockings?"

Harry couldn't help but snort along with everyone else, much to Malfoy's annoyance. Malfoy had to have been hexed or blackmailed into it, because Harry couldn't see him doing anything that even remotely tarnished what Malfoy thought was an immaculate reputation.

"Doubtless, this is Potter's attempt at a joke." Malfoy smirked when Harry frowned. "Even so, it has been made clear that students must wear only the uniform of their respective houses, even if you do feel it appropriate to sneak into Hufflepuff's common room on Halloween, dressed like a badger." He rounded on Harry, who was frankly amazed that Snape had managed to keep a straight face all this time. "Professor McGonagall is tiring of your Gryffindor charade, Mister Potter, and has personally requested that I tell you to stick to your own uniform. The Fat Lady is not to be confused, of that we are all to be positive." Finally, he sucked in a breath, and paused when he realised that Malfoy very much resembled a kettle at screaming point. "Is there something the matter?"

"Yes," hissed Malfoy, "he's been acting weird all morning—and last night as well. We were just sat on the sofa in the common room, Professor, and suddenly he jumped up like he had a stick up his arse and broke my nose. And he was being stupid with the Bludgers, and he storms off when we win, and now he's dressing up in Ron bloody Weasley's robes? He thinks he's a Gryffindor! Somebody's Imperiused him!"

"I am surprised," drawled Snape, cutting through the quietness, "that you think it possible for Potter to be Imperiused right under my nose. None of my students are adept enough to cast such a spell, and even if they were, I would notice the symptoms. Mister Potter is not under the influence of the Imperius curse, Malfoy. He has the brash, indifferent stupidity of a Gryffindor and has been a long-time purveyor of Weasley joke products. If these are not two stock characteristics of Gryffindor, Mister Malfoy, then I shall report back to the Sorting Hat and tell it that it has been putting students into the wrong houses for thousands of years."

Well, at least Snape still disliked him. At least something was reciprocated. Meanwhile, Malfoy's mouth gaped open, then it closed, and then it opened again before he shrank back and resigned. His eyes were narrow, shooting daggers, but Snape had turned around and was calling the two of them plus Crabbe and Goyle to the far end of the changing room while the others washed their hands and chattered.

Oh, yes, Harry had forgotten that Snape had wanted to see them. So had Crabbe by the looks of it; his piggy eyes flew open and he said, quite stupidly: "Do you want us to grow those Puffskeins back, Professor?"

"No," said Snape dismissively, "now listen up. All of you know why I've asked to speak to you. Let me make it clear that none of this conversation is to be repeated outside the five of us. There will be repercussions for your disobedience should you let anything slip—" Goyle looked away nervously "—as Mister Goyle has discovered. Do not take what I am about to relay to you at face value. Things change, circumstances shift, and loyalties wane. This is simply an outline of things to come."

_Outline?_ Harry wondered, _Outline for what?_

And yet from the gleeful look on Malfoy's face he knew it couldn't be good. He was beginning to feel sick, and scared from some deep part inside him. Not even these Gryffindor robes could protect him against the horrible murky feeling he had in his stomach. He listened intently with rattling breath, wondering how on Earth the other four of the group couldn't hear or feel his heart thudding dangerously.

"Malfoy, you and Potter are to visit the cupboard tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. Potter will enter first, and you will lock it behind him. Then you will re-open it, once you are sure he is gone, and then you shall go through yourself. Make sure to cover your tracks. Simple charms around the Barnabas tapestry will prevent anybody not looking for it from entering it—the Room of Requirement is ample protection against the ignorant, but I shall cast more powerful enchantments around the cupboard afterwards, and erase the ones you have made so as not to arouse suspicion. When you are through—well, I'll know." He searched the boys' faces for any sign of protest. Malfoy was serenely happy; Harry was serenely lost. "You understand that you shall both have caught pneumonia according to anybody who asks, and that you will also miss out on the last two weeks of term."

Holidays already? Harry would've normally been happy to have some free time off to celebrate Christmas at Hogwarts, but he had a feeling that this season wasn't going to be as happy and joyous and previous years had been. He had no clue what was going on, why he or Malfoy were going to this so-called cupboard and why they had to cover their tracks, but he had a feeling insofar as to the nature of the blueprint of his mission Snape was laying out.

Next Snape rounded onto Malfoy's cronies. "You two will pass through at one o'clock, an hour earlier. I shall be there, waiting for the both of you so that I may undo and replace the enchantments. You are to report _immediately_ to your fathers, as you've been told and then—"

"—then we wait for Draco and Harry," finished Goyle. Whatever discipline had been enacted where he was concerned was doing its job well; that stupid, gorilla expression was replaced by astute nervousness and what looked to be a dying wish for everything to go according to plan. If Harry liked Goyle he would've pitied him, but as it stood Harry did not like Goyle so therefore did not pity him.

Discipline and intelligent awareness were completely wasted on Crabbe, however, who cocked his head to one side and said thickly: "And if we don't go to our dads? What happens then?"

"Then you won't finish the necessary preparations, which is a taster of your induction, and you will have marred the process which has been painstakingly organised and laid-out by many individuals thousands of times more important than yourself, and Malfoy's and Potter's parents—" Harry's heart lurched "—will be utterly humiliated, and this painstakingly organised and laid-out process will go to waste, and _He_ won't be very pleased."

"Who's _He?_" asked Crabbe.

Snape's only response for a long time was a blink. There was a moment in which Harry thought his heart was going to palpitate because his brain had already pieced the information together and filled in the gaps, and yet he could not process it. It took Snape's cold sneer to put everything into perspective for him.

"The Dark Lord."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's notes: <em>**_I claim no ownership over the copyrighted _Harry Potter_ materials from which my fanfiction is derived. All rights and reserves go to J.K. Rowling, author of the novels, and Warner Bros. which owns the film rights of the films upon which this work is partially based. I own my own creativity and personal interpretation of the works, characters, events, canon and concepts but nothing more. Unfortunately I wish the characters were mine, but they aren't!_

__As another important note, I have to tell you I have a vague idea of where this story is going. It'll be based on the original material, of course, but so is most fanfiction. Think of this as canonical AU if you will; i.e. what could've happened. At any rate, **please review** so I know that you're happy with this and wish it to continue.__


	4. IV: As A Serpent I Shifted

_**Please view with the following options for an optimal reading experience: the smallest font size; Sans-serif font; 3/4 story width; no story line spacing; and with the light brightness/contrast option. Thank you.**_

—x—

Harry's parents were Death Eaters.

He wasn't okay with that. He was the exact _opposite_ of okay with that: Mortified would be a better word—and disgusted, and sickened. After everything Voldemort had ever done, all those people he'd tortured and killed in the name of power—after all those times he'd proved himself to be a very vision of Franz Kafka—and his parents were disciples of the very man who had destroyed them in cold blood.

But these weren't his parents, he had to remind himself quickly, sadly, sort of like having read through the terms and conditions and realising you weren't getting all you'd bargained for; and yet, behind all the Post-it notes Harry was tacking onto his brain, he had the sickening notion that they were all he had and knew.

In essence, Harry was conflicted. The best thing to do would be to put things into perspective: He had his wish, as Sirius was alive; he was sacrificing so many other things: Ron, Hermione, his Gryffindor and DA friends; he was gaining things he had nothing but disrespect for: Voldemort, Death Eaters, and Malfoy for a best friend.

It opened a void inside himself that he knew only to be hot and fresh and reserved for Sirius. If there was any feeling worse than knowing his parents were gone, and that he would never see their smiles or tell them he loved them, it was having parents who stood for the very thing Harry hated: power. And that was easy for Harry to say, because he had power in reams: he had fame and money and popularity and friends. He came from an honourable family, belonged to the best house Hogwarts had to offer—and yet in the face of _real_ power, power which belonged to this alternate Slytherin self, power which meant he would probably never know anguish in his life, he felt more broken than he'd ever been before.

Perhaps it was five years of Voldemort that made him so hardened against Death Eater ideals and Slytherin values—perhaps he was _wrong_ for not trying to fit in with these people. Did it make him stupid, to stick out so much like a sore thumb? Yes, probably. Did it make it dangerous? Well, yes; Malfoy was already giving him the stink eye. In its wake Harry had to rationalise.

_Screw_ the wish he'd gotten—that was a good way to put it. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours and already he could see little to be joyous about. Snape was more lenient to him, which was probably only because he didn't want to have to take points away from his own house, and his not-parents and not-Sirius were alive and well. Did that change how he felt? Not really; he was even more alone than he had been back when he had no mother or father, and when nobody believed him about Voldemort's resurrection. He'd rather have that, fight his battles with Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Luna than sit with this lot, in the den of the enemy, and pretend everything was all right.

The bitter irony of it all was that everything was all right, but Harry was restless with it. It was all right for Malfoy because Malfoy idolised Voldemort—or at least that was Harry's interpretation of it. Slytherin Harry probably would've idolised Voldemort as well, but despite being in Slytherin Harry's body, Gryffindor Harry was just not that same person. He didn't think he could ever _be_ Slytherin Harry.

It called his morals into question, essentially.

It was like this: How was it so easy for these Death Eater juniors to be so at ease with what was going on behind the scenes of the wizarding world? How could they not be angered by the brutality and the violence and the absolute injustice of it all? How could they not want to lash out, purely from common human decency, and put an end to all that evil? Were they devoid of compassion and goodness? Or there something preventing them from turning around to their parents and saying, _"No, I don't want to be a Death Eater. I want to do good things and have a happy family and a great job. I want to help people instead of destroying them."_

But his parents… They were Death Eaters much like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Draco was their offspring, born out of love or whatever sappy label they wanted to put on it. Harry had always gotten the impression that Lucius was very regal, but not uncaring; otherwise he wouldn't have given a damn about his son, and from Malfoy's upbringing it was clear he did. He could've been wrong, of course, but despite whatever hard edge Lucius had on his son there were soft, affectionate undertones spread out through his gestures: the way he clothed his son, wrote to him religiously every week, bought him nothing but the best. They were Death Eaters who cared for their child, and were nurturing him to follow suit. Why on Earth they'd want that for Draco was beyond Harry, but he could see some semblance of love in his theory.

Were his own parents like that? Had they rejected the Order to be at Voldemort's side because they saw things differently? Were they evil—or misguided, hopeful that things would turn out differently, anti-heroes? Was all this Dark magic they'd purportedly taught Harry simply a means of defence against the world? After all, there were things and people out there which were much more powerful than themselves and Harry, and surely it was best to play an enemy at their own game… If Voldemort even was the enemy, of course. Probably not, he thought glumly, but he could only have faith in their reasoning for standing at the Dark Lord's side.

Maybe it was something to do with politics or society or even finances and the economy. Voldemort was a very powerful man, one of the most powerful in the world much like a drug dealer tapping the black market or something to that effect. He had fingers in all sorts of pies, probably in the Ministry (well, he'd had a year to get back into power at any rate) and the Muggle parliament by extension, even if the Prime Minister wasn't aware of it. Harry was sure the two governments had to work with one another, and it wasn't like Voldemort would put himself as the poster boy for the Ministry—he'd have someone else doing it, someone from his Death Eater party or someone he'd blackmailed or even placed under the Imperius curse. That puppet would be doing all of Voldemort's commanding, stylised cleverly to play the game subtly.

Harry knew Voldemort's power didn't just come from strength and magic, but from a wicked mind with sound logic. There was no way, this deep into the game, that Voldemort would make such a brash move as exposing himself to the wizarding and Muggle world just yet. He had to want to build up the people's trust, condition them slowly and over time through propaganda, advertising, perhaps even resources and, behind curtains, blackmail, torture and murder. Voldemort wasn't a pawn on the board: He was the queen piece, moving in all directions and presenting a very real threat of elimination with every move.

Taking all of that into consideration, Harry wished he knew exactly why his parents had chosen what they'd chosen so that he could somehow justify their choice: And yet, he couldn't. He was sure they loved him, and he was absolutely sure he loved _them_ simply for being the parents he'd never had, but death had taught him that life was precious. To hand it to an evil man on a silver platter… That wasn't something Harry could see eye-to-eye with.

Yet he was alive, by whatever nuance, and he still fit the prophecy perfectly, assuming the prophecy was still correct in this other world. They had to have done something to protect him; maybe this was it. Maybe they'd taken the flak for Voldemort's hatred, had agreed to join him so he'd spare Harry. They could've chosen to give Neville to Voldemort in his place.

It was difficult, perhaps to the point as being unsolvable, but as conflicted as he was about the whole issue, Harry was grateful in some part. He was loved, despite the other factors of the circumstances in which he lived being disagreeable with him.

It was a small revelation, one that had been sparked yesterday but hidden beneath the layers and layers of hurt, befuddlement and shock. Others would've reacted well to this situation whereas Harry had been smashed by the pain of Sirius's death—how convenient was it, then, that he couldn't even really feel that pain in the first place? Was his Gryffindor self and personality becoming meshed with the body of this Slytherin duplicate? Was his heart being hardened and replaced by this snake's core? It terrified him to think about, that he was turning into a different person and he couldn't stop it.

And maybe the most important and sensible question: Was there a cure? He was already in so deep, a son of Death Eater parents and off tomorrow to meet up with the Dark Lord Himself. He had to find a way out of it—he had to tell Dumbledore, but first he needed to know exactly what was going on. His foolishness and spite had made him act out, and even though he simply wanted to punch Malfoy's nose into his brain he knew it was no good. He was surrounded by the people that, in his version of events, hated him; already he was making too much process back down that same path with Malfoy and the other Slytherins—perhaps even the rest of the school—on his back. He was being watched like a hawk.

He had to play it cool, he realised. For a spare moment as Snape drew his eyes over the group he considered not doing it, but he realised that he had no time to lose. He had to start somewhere, and that place was a gesture which in turn was a grin forced onto his mouth. He then knocked Crabbe in the ribs with an elbow. Had it been the Gryffindor Harry doing that, Snape would've given him a week's worth of detentions: but as it stood, it was Slytherin Harry who was being as insolent and disobedient as ever, and a _cocky little shite_ to boot, just like his father.

"C'mon, _Vinny_—don't tell me you're that stupid." The words came from Harry's mouth, strange to him but pleasingly not out of place for his Slytherin cohorts. He exhaled in relief as the corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched.

"Name's _Vincent_," replied Crabbe thickly, "you know I hate being called Vinny. Pack it in."

"Whatever," said Harry with a yawn. He turned his eyes back to Snape. "How do we know we won't be followed, Professor? Hasn't, er… Hasn't Dumbledore figured any of this out? Pretty sure he'd know if students were disappearing, sir."

"Well," Snape drew himself up, fingers knitted into his lapels, "as it stands, Potter, you're _pretty wrong_ about that. I've made all the arrangements. If you want to go snooping, I'll make sure to keep a log book of your insolence and let the Dark Lord put you under the Cruciatus curse for every minute you waste my time. I thought Goyle's chastisement would've taught you a few _home values._"

Harry's jaw went taut, and simply he said: "Yes, sir, of course."

Snape looked satisfied with his answer. "It _pleases_ me to know you understand where your loyalties lie—" his eyes flickered down at the Gryffindor garb he was decked out in "—that's all for now. Lock up after yourselves, and don't leave any little surprises for the next unfortunate idiots to use these changing rooms. Whatever celebrations there are in the common room will be completely free of this meeting, do you understand me?" His eyes washed over the lot of them; Harry nodded along keenly. "I'll see you all tomorrow." He collected himself but paused once he was at the doorway. "Well-played, Urquhart, Zabini, Vaisey. Thirty points for Slytherin."

Snape's exit was accompanied by the sound of high-fives and jeers. Whilst Crabbe and Goyle went to collect their bags, Harry kept Malfoy back and shook his shoulder firmly. He put on his best serious face, which was a task, but he thought he had the effect when Malfoy cocked a semi-annoyed brow at him.

"Sorry, Draco," he said, "really don't know what came over me."

"Right," replied Malfoy stiffly, "well, I'm glad we've had this revelation. Want me to turn around so you can hit me with a Bludger?"

"Draco, look—I'm really sorry, I am. I don't know what happened. One minute we were sat there, and I was thinking about…" about who? "…about Alicia Spinnett, then all of a sudden I just felt _weird,_ mate—weird like someone was putting all these thoughts in my head, and I just couldn't control myself. I don't know, maybe one of the house elves poisoned my food or something, could've been that Winky. She hasn't been happy ever since I set her tea towel on fire."

"Tea towel? You set a house elf's tea towel on fire?"

Harry thought that he would've been more concerned with Harry being poisoned, but apparently not. It was evident that some things never changed.

"C'mon, mate, don't judge me. I was hungry, she was busy with sausage rolls, what else was I supposed to do? Starve? It was a really good sandwich in the end. Worth it a hundred times over."

"So, you're telling me you spent three hours out after hours, getting a sandwich?" When had this been, Harry wondered? He gave a noncommittal shrug like it was perfectly normal. Draco hesitated, and then went on. "Martin told me you'd gone for a shag with Cho Chang."

Oh, Lord—Harry had sex with _Cho?_ He felt horrible, like he'd violated her. A shiver ran through him, yet he shrugged again. "A shag, sandwich, who cares? You can get—" Harry cringed internally, and pressed on "—good pussy anywhere. A sandwich is a different thing altogether."

Malfoy looked to blow him off but he was pleasantly surprised when he burst out laughing, slapping Harry on the back. "Good one," he wheezed, "God, you're pulling them off today, aren't you? First Romilda, then Weasel and Mudblood—" _HERMIONE_ "—then Cho Chang—ah, Harry, you're a funny one. I thought you'd been scoffing those toffees again. I told you not to fall for all that discount stuff."

"Yeah, well—it's like drugs and alcohol I bet, house elves and Wizarding Wheezes. Never together, reckon I just saved the entirety of Hufflepuff the pain. Fat shits, they'll eat anything."

"Didn't stop you from going with Susan Bones though, did it?"

Oh, God. Now _that_ was violation—to Harry. He shivered openly, which made Malfoy smile and round on him, tugging at Harry's Gryffindor tie.

"Keep it on, tell Weasley you've got second-hand robes for sale."

"Nah," said Harry, "I think I'll just burn it instead. Use it as fuel for the fire back at the party. Sorry about the Beating, by the way. I kept thinking I wanted to aim right for Smith, but my arms wouldn't work properly… You're probably right, Draco. I bet they gave me shitty knock-offs."

"Right, well, now that's all cleared up, let's go. Snape doesn't want us around for too long, and we'd better get in a good night before tomorrow. It'll be a long winter, Harry, trust me."

—x—

Whatever this purported long winter was, Harry didn't know; he didn't have a chance to ask Malfoy on the way back to the castle after the changing rooms were locked up. Gryffindor were still moping about inside, but Harry had to leave his friends behind, which he regretted—instead he had a rather sickening view of Pansy's behind as she wiggled her way up the hill in jeans which were very much too tight. He didn't know what Malfoy saw in her.

Currently they were celebrating their success, nearly everybody being hailed as a hero: Malfoy as usual since he was the Seeker (and, well, the most popular of the lot), Ishmael Urquhart as the Captain, and the three Chasers because they'd secured the win. They'd even applauded Harry's maiming of Hannah Abbott, which he thought was a bit morose, and then they'd gone outside the common room to meet up with a group of fifth year Hufflepuffs who'd secured some lifted Firewhiskey. Harry had given one of the girls a couple of galleons and, for added effect, "Tell that little dipshit Smith he'd better clarify I was aiming for him because he's such an annoying prat, not Hannah Abbott—and tell him if he doesn't, he'll find himself at the bottom of the lake; I don't want my Christmas ruined by a bunch of Hufflepuff gits and jinxes on my way around school" after which they'd scurried off pretty quickly.

Now, with the Gryffindor uniform shrunken and keeping Millicent Bulstrode's cat cosy, Harry and Malfoy were sprawled out on one of the sofas while music blasted over the shouts, screams and general noise of celebration. Malfoy had a bottle of the Firewhiskey in his hand and while Harry was getting a head massage from a fourth year—someone called Tracey—he watched Blaise become layered by girls on the couch opposite.

"How many d'you think you can handle tonight?" Malfoy shouted. Harry peeked at him through lidded eyes, sleepiness in his bones. That Quidditch match and all this food and alcohol were taking a lot out of him.

"Dunno," said Blaise deeply, "two weeks ago I made it to three. Think I can push it to four or five."

Malfoy whistled. "S'only 'cause you're a Veela, mate—"

"Don't care, Draco!" Blaise looked content with his surroundings. "Why would you turn down a little bit like this lot given the chance? Not that you'd know, of course! How many have you had this year? Six, seven?"

"Seven these past two weeks, more like!" Malfoy retorted. He looked to Harry for support; Harry laughed, digging him in the leg with his foot. "'Least I'm not dipping into the third years!"

"She was fourteen," said Blaise; a blonde girl at his side shimmied up to him and batted her eyes at him. Harry vaguely recalled her as Emmanuelle something or other. "_Is_ fourteen."

Well, that was another rumour proved: It really was true that Slytherins had the most active sex lives. Harry wasn't completely against it, having been interested in Cho, but he wasn't sure if he was completely okay with the rampant promiscuity. Or perhaps wizarding teens were much like Muggle teens: sex on the mind all the time, constant urges of desire. It wasn't that unusual—but still, Susan Bones…

Harry sat up, head a bit light, and looked around. Everybody seemed to be having a good time, streamers and food lying about, and an overly-green Christmas tree looking dejected in the corner. All the baubles had been bewitched to zoom after anybody who went near it so Malcolm Baddock, a third year with a bad bowl-cut, was now running around using his hands to shield his head as the decorations pinged off him mercilessly. Harry resisted the temptation to laugh and lie back down, and instead went to procure a bit of Butterbeer by the fire. Several girls flocked to him yet moved away when he completely ignored them, too busy getting an overview of what was going on to invest in any small talk:

Pansy had taken his place on the couch, looking relieved he'd shoved off; a girl in the corner was looking green, and two first-year boys were making some of the streamers float. They looked around as if they'd performed the world's most difficult piece of magic and expected great praise for it, then looked crestfallen when Hestia Carrow made the paper fizzle miserably into little white flecks. Carrow herself was situated at a square table playing a wizarding rendition of poker, and there was a small hub of people around her who were cheering her on; her opponent, Harry realised, was a beautiful brunette of Pakistani descent, and had her own clan of supporters. It was clear that Carrow had found a match.

Well, it was time to slip out for a bit. It wasn't too late, about half seven, and nobody would stop him on the stairs if he said he was going to check with McGonagall about some Transfigurations problems he was having. He could make it up to Gryffindor tower all right, especially with the invisibility cloak packed underneath his clothes like a second layer. He was very glad to still be in possession of it, because he really didn't want to come across Peeves or Mrs Norris for that matter. Filch would probably find some reason or other to chuck him in detention or to report him to Snape, and today Harry had discovered that Snape was still not his biggest fan.

Ah, well, he couldn't win them all.

He moved over to Draco before he left and (with an unnerving look from Pansy) spoke in his ear: "I'm going for a bit, Draco, paying a visit to Granger. Lucian Bole made me a bet couple of weeks ago."

Draco raised a brow. "Do you even know Gryffindor's password?"

"It's probably something stupid like _Mudblood royalty_. Anyway, the Fat Lady's not that intelligent; I could just follow someone in and she'd never know. See you later."

"All right—" he pulled on Harry's sleeve when he turned to leave "—and be back by ten. We've got a big day tomorrow."

"Right," was all Harry said before he left the common room and slung the invisibility cloak over himself. As he walked down the dank corridor he heard the portrait mutter to itself faintly.

"I saw that…"

—x—

Harry thanked his lucky stars when the door to the seventh floor corridor shut quietly behind him: he'd only come across Peeves, who had been easily avoided by pressing against the wall and keeping very still despite the cloak. Peeves's translucent hands were covered in Snargaluff juice, giving him the very odd effect of a dead person wearing green gloves.

Harry's slow pace made it so that it was eight o'clock by the time he arrived outside the Gryffindor corridor: things here were eerily quiet, but perhaps that was the ringing of the Slytherin party in his ears. Gryffindor wouldn't have any reason to celebrate given they'd lost both their matches and were definitely not first place for the Quidditch tournament: at best they could tie for second, third or fourth place and that was a miserable affair indeed—if they were indeed as team-proud as Harry remembered them being. It looked as if their recruits needed a little polishing; if Ginny was Captain, Harry was sure she'd get them all to buck up in no time since she had a no-nonsense attitude.

He was sat outside the common room for about twenty minutes, watching the Fat Lady pick her nose and eat grapes, before the portrait swung open and out came Ginny herself with a fierce expression. Harry almost lurched to say hello to her, but reeled himself back and darted in before the portrait could close; he brushed Ginny's shoulder, and she turned around, but scowled when she saw nothing and went on her way: the Quidditch match probably attributed to the bad mood. He stood there staring at her for the longest moment before the portrait closed once again, and he was thrown into shadow.

He made his way carefully down the small steps of his old common room, already feeling at home.

The palette of golds, browns and reds was familiar to him. The tapestries were much the same, still long and frayed before they had been preserved by magic and spells to ward off insects; if you listened extremely carefully you could still hear the faint, kittenish roar of a prancing lion with a majestic mane in burnt oranges and sandy shades. The chairs, brown to match the earthen scheme of the room, were dotted about as always like someone had been holding all the furniture in their hands before letting them fall. There was no real pattern to the Gryffindor common room, no sequence or rhythm around which the Slytherin common room seemed to be stylised: Everything here was natural and homely from the warmth of the fire eating thick logs in the hearth to the soft breeze slipping through a half-open window which framed the gemstone sky like a portrait. Despite its age and lack of real interior design, it was real to Harry, not carefully structured like that of the Slytherin common room.

Looking about, Harry almost cried with joy when he saw it was mostly empty bar Ron and Hermione huddled in the corner over a game of wizard's chest. Ron was winning, of course, but Hermione looked to be making a fair fight: they were laughing and smiling, which made Harry's heart ache because he wasn't part of that happiness.

He shuffled over to them quietly and sat down in an empty chair beside Ron. Neither of them noticed him—after taking another quick look around to make sure he was alone with them—until he pulled the cloak from his head, and looked directly at Hermione. She screamed, nearly knocked everything over, and scrambled to her feet. Ron, in tandem, did the same, and narrowly missed his well-aimed punch. Harry ducked just in time before backing off, keeping his distance; he knew that Hermione would be quick to cast some nasty hexes on him and he didn't want her alerting the rest of Gryffindor to his presence.

"What the—_Potter!_ What are you _doing_ in here? How did you get in?"

Harry pressed a finger to his lips. "Be quiet, Hermione! Christ _alive,_ I don't need anybody knowing I'm here! Please—just don't do anything irrational—" he turned to Ron quickly, knowing that he would be the most likely to explode "—and I'm sorry for this morning, all right, just hear me out." Ron's face was like steel; Hermione's, too. Harry looked between them both uneasily, and then continued weakly. "Listen, it's a lot to explain… I don't know where to begin but you're the only people I can trust—or at least I think I can, it's all too confusing…"

"You've given us nothing but grief for the past six years, Potter, and you've just broken into our common room. There isn't _any_ bloody trust between us." That was Ron. "I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you."

"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry—but please, let me explain, it's more important than you realise. I'm not who you think I am."

"Right." Ron gave a clipped but bitter laugh. "You've taken Polyjuice Potion. Inventive."

"No! No, look, I'm me—I'm Harry, I'm just—I'm not. I can't explain if you won't let me—I just… Ron, _please._ Please, Ron, I'm begging you—I _need_ you to believe me. I'll do anything to prove it—and you too, 'Mione."

Ron's face was hard for a long moment. He was regarding Harry suspiciously as Harry knew he would, but something was ticking behind Ron's eyes which made him hesitate. Slowly and carefully, he then said: "Tell me something only I'd know."

"Er, your middle name's Bilius—"

"—that's hardly something only I'd know."

"Yes, you're right—uh… Okay, you've got a ghoul at your house that moans and throws stuff around in the attic. You've, er, got Chudley Cannon posters on your walls, and your dad's got a shed full of Muggle stuff. He works at the Ministry in the Improper Use department, and he's got a flying Ford Anglia…"

"Potter, you're the master of creep. You could've learned that from Snape."

"Oh, yeah, I s'pose: okay, erm… How about… Your mum. Your mum's Boggart is you and your brothers' bodies; her worst fear is losing her kids… When you looked in the Mirror of Erised you saw yourself as Head Boy, Captain of the Quidditch team… All the good stuff."

By now Ron's face had paled; it was as if Harry had crossed an invisible barrier. Hermione went to his side, shooting the same glares at Harry as Malfoy earlier on in the changing room. Harry simply had to swallow and go on.

"See, there's no way I could know that stuff, Ron. And you too, Hermione—your patronus, it's an otter; and… and your mum and dad are dentists—er, and you and Victor Krum were corresponding for a long while, and he couldn't say your name properly, and that really got on your nerves… In the third year, you were using a time-turner to do all your classes. McGonagall gave you one and told you to keep it a secret…"

Hermione's eyes bulged, and Ron looked all of mortified, mystified and a bit sick. He slumped into his chair with Hermione's help, then brought one of the animated pawns into his hand and started to play with it between his fingers. The piece made a fuss, at which point Ron squeezed it much like a stress toy, and then it screamed and was set back down, and Ron got back onto his feet and began to pace.

"All right, let me get this straight. You aren't really a Slytherin git, and your parents aren't Death Eaters."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean—where I come from, I'm a different person. I'm not in Slytherin and… and I don't have any parents. Muggles brought me up, but I came here when I got my letter and your mum showed me how to get onto the platform to the train, Ron. And then we had sweets in the compartment, and you were my first friend—" he turned on Hermione "—and you came in, asking about a toad, and Ron was trying to do magic on Scabbers, and you sort of huffed and puffed when it didn't work. Malfoy said he and I should be friends, but I told him to get lost. Then there was the Sorting ceremony: the Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I begged it not to so it put me in Gryffindor instead."

Hermione looked disbelieving. "Anybody could make that up," she said irritably, "just because you know a few things about us doesn't mean it's proof you're telling the truth. And, also—nobody's ever inhabited another person's body in hundreds of years. That's Dark magic."

"But it's not _magic_," stressed Harry, "I don't know what it is. We were at the Ministry, looking for a prophecy—and _Voldemort_ turned up, and Sirius died. I panicked. I found a load of time-turners and did something. I—I'm not sure what…"

"Lost your bloody marbles, that's what you did." That came from Ron. He, like Hermione, had turned hostile with tiny little slits for eyes. It didn't take a genius to work out that something in that last part of Harry's confession had sparked something with him. Harry knew Ron's temper, and Hermione's aptitude for impressive spells, so he stepped backwards. "Think it's funny, don't you? I can understand coming up here to gloat about the match but this is something different. Know all that stuff because of your stinking Death Eater parents, do you? Been listening in on secret meetings? Bribed someone? You're a Slytherin through and through, Potter. I'd put nothing past you, not even serial bloody murder. You're worse than Malfoy: at least he's open with it, unlike you."

"But—Ron! I'm not lying! I can prove it, I swear! Just get me to Snape, he can give me a potion, er, what's it called? Veritaserum! He can give me Veritaserum! C'mon, I can prove it—"

"Oh, get over yourself," snapped Hermione, "Snape gives you house points for everything you do. He'd even award you Student of the Year for going to the toilet if he could. Snape's far too much in love with Slytherin to ever do anything to tarnish _perfect Harry Potter_. Now, you have five seconds to get out or—or I'll _oppugno_ you." Her voice quaked at the end; her impressive screen of strength was beginning to crack.

"No, Hermione, I'm serious! You have to trust me, really you do! I've not much time left, something bad is going to happen tomorrow and I don't think I have a way out of it—"

"_Five."_

"Come on, Hermione… Ron, tell her! I need help, my parents, if I don't go along they'll be _crucified_—"

"_Four."_

"Shove off, Potter."

"_Three."_

"Come on," Harry said with a tight throat, "_please._"

"Oh, yes, we'll just run along with you down to the Slytherin dungeons right into the hands of your Death Eater pals, Potter. That's not suspicious at all, is it?"

"_Two."_

Hermione's wand was pointed right at him, and behind her rocky face there was both pain and hatred brewing. Harry was afraid of what kind of magic would come forward, scared she'd use one of the Unforgivable Curses out of pure anger… The Cruciatus would be pushing it, and even he didn't think she had it in her to use it… But he couldn't know. He had to back away towards the portrait, mumbling and apologising and begging as he did so.

"Come on—just this once. I understand what I may have done to you might have been bad but I need you to believe me. Everything dep—"

"_One."_

"Please!"

"_Impedimenta!"_

The spell came out of Hermione's lips shakily as sudden emotion washed over her; Harry dodged to the side just as the spell collided with a red clay pot that went flying into the air and shattered against the ceiling. Ron, too, had his wand out but Harry would not raise his. These were his _friends_. He couldn't turn on them because they didn't understand. He had to afford them time and kindness, and love and all that cushy stuff. He was useless against them now, but perhaps there was still a way in Dumbledore…

But would that have a knock-on effect against Harry's parents? Surely if he told Dumbledore, Dumbledore would pass it back down onto Snape that he knew what he was up to, and some way or other Voldemort would find out what was going on and he'd punish Harry's parents. Harry couldn't bear the thought of them tortured or in pain or in any sort of danger—but there was nobody else he could turn to, and Dumbledore had always been the greatest of safeties for him…

He turned, dodging another spell, and left the common room to the sound of Hermione's sobs. Something unhinged her, something he'd said. For that, Harry was more than sorry.

—x—

"Oh, bloody hell—Sherbet lemon."

Nothing.

"Fizzing Whizzbees."

Nothing.

"Open sesame!"

Nothing.

"Abracadabra!"

Nothing.

Harry growled and banged on the large, golden bird statue that festooned the ingress to Dumbledore's decadent quarters. There was a loud clang as he did so but he wasn't bothered about drawing attention to himself beneath the cloak; he was much too hurt by the rejection from Ron and Hermione, and it was clear now that it was pretty damn important that he speak to the head teacher. The noise ricocheted from the walls and produced a gong-like echo which was rather painful to the ears; a portrait across sniffled at him disapprovingly.

"You might try being a bit more polite," it said with an air of snobbishness, "nobody answers the door to a lunatic."

"I'm not asking for your opinion!" Had there been a few more S's in that sentence, Harry would have been hissing. As it stood, he would be grateful there weren't since he had no mood for Slytherin shenanigans tonight. The reminders that he was in this situation—for example, even having to go to the lengths to explain the circumstances—were enough as it was already.

"Well, I never." The tone was offended.

He rounded on the portrait, saw it hung up a little to the left. It was of a short fat man with dark skin in a moth-eaten wig surrounded by what looked to be a cart of eternally ripe apples. The portrait man drew back with a horrified expression, particularly when Harry prodded at the canvas with his finger; the cart toppled over, sending its produce rolling along the path. The portrait man was not very happy at all.

"Now, young man, that wasn't called for—"

"Look, I'm sorry, I'm just a bit tired at the moment and I'm having a really bad day, and I could do _more than anything_ with talking to Dumbledore right now. It's after hours so I'm probably going to get detention for this, but this is _urgent_. I need the password—if you have it, just give it. I'll do anything. I'll tell the other portraits how fantastic you are."

"No, no, that's perfectly all right. I'm not one to give out secrets, especially well-guarded ones like the headmaster's password. Only important and verified personnel are allowed up to the office, and it's quite about time you went off to bed, don't you think? Sunday tomorrow, lots of homework for you I assume."

"I've done all my homework," lied Harry, "could you at least go up to one of the office portraits and tell him Harry Potter is here to see him? Tell him it's urgent."

"Harry Potter?" His deep eyes scoured Harry from head to toe, weighing him up for his worth. He seemed to have an astute eye from the way he hummed and put his pudgy hands on his hips, like Harry was a prize bull from which he could gain something. A little later, he said: "Well, all right, but what's in it for me?"

Harry sighed a quiet breath of relief. "Oh, anything you want. I'll—I don't know—polish your frame for you."

"Hmm," said the portrait man thoughtfully, "that'd be nice; I _am_ looking a tad tarnished as of late—and if you could do something else for me? Put in a word with the, er, the Fat Lady." His chubby cheeks flushed pink. "I've never had the courage to go to visit her domain, you see. Tell her I know her real name; tell her I think it's beautiful."

"Right, right, yes, I'll put in a word with the Fat Lady. Just, please, hurry."

"All right, no need to rush me. Hang about."

Harry watched with impatient eyes as the portrait man paced up and down, setting a few of the apples straight as if they were the bone structures of one of the Ancient Egyptian pyramids, and then patted his tattered lordly robes against his round belly. His piggy nose went to the air and with the regality of a swan he strutted out of his portrait and climbed upwards through vast panoramas and redwood forests; he even swam a length under some dark ocean illuminated by creatures of the deep, then pulled himself onto a dining table with a sopping brow. He heaved and he made a fuss, but he was ascending higher and higher until Harry could no longer see him, at which point it all became the waiting game once again.

Harry wondered what on Earth he could tell Dumbledore. The headmaster had knowledge far beyond anybody he knew: Could it be that he knew something of what had happened to Harry? Did he know how to fix it? And if he knew nothing of it, then would he be able to help Harry? Would he even _believe_ Harry? Did he even _like_ Harry?

His heart fluttered rapidly and he did seven and a half rounds of striding when the portrait man tumbled through canvases and landed quite unflatteringly in a field of cows. He scoffed and snorted, but pulled himself to his feet and once again put his nose to the air to announce he had done Harry's favour:

"It was very difficult finding a portrait into which I could enter, young lad—but fortunately the headmaster was having a conversation with his good friend, the Sorting Hat, and I was able to catch his attention. I relayed that one Harry Potter was urgent to see him, and would he please grant him entry. He then said, _'__Harry Potter wishes to see me? I hope this isn't about another incident with the Flobberworms, Francois,__'_ at which point I said, _'__Headmaster, I do not know the nature of the boy's problems, but he is both insistent and obnoxiously loud.__'_ He then said that he would see you, and now here I am, and I shall be so polite as to remind you that you owe me the favours we agreed upon."

"Yeah—Thanks, er, Francois. You've got no idea how much I appreciate this."

Harry clambered back onto the steps circling around the statue of the bird, and gave it a tap with his wand. The ground shook beneath him unsteadily, and then he began to rise, and the portrait of Francois was lost from sight. It was quickly replaced by the short, sweeping corridor leading to Dumbledore's office; ornate Gothic designs were carved from the walls, pillars creating narrow alcoves in which a manner of things rested on glass shelves. Harry's eyes swept over them, uninterested, and he made his way to the hefty oak door at the end. Its bronze knocker created a gloomy sound when it thudded down against the wood.

"Come in," came Dumbledore's soft reply.

Harry pushed the door and watched it swing open to reveal the magnificent office beyond. He'd seen it a hundred times before, and it was something akin to relaxing when he took in the room in its entirety and realised that nothing was different. The Pensieve was tucked away behind the folding doors of that stately cabinet to the right, and the desk was even more cluttered with bits and bobs; behind it was Dumbledore, who looked to have put down a quill. He must have been in the middle of paperwork.

The one change that discomforted Harry was the lack of the warm expression Dumbledore usually stored away just for him. There was no crease of the eyes or the lips, only a slight narrowing of the eyelids which made Harry feel like he was being scrutinised. Whatever Harry had done must have been something he'd normally never dream of, because as far back as Harry could remember, Dumbledore had always been nothing short of cordial with every one of his students.

The first thing that Harry thought was that Dumbledore didn't like him. The second thing wasn't so much a thought but a very cold pit of dread that pulled his heart into his stomach. He hoped very much that the headmaster would cotton onto what was happening, because it occurred to him that Dumbledore was the best chance he had at solving the mess he'd gotten himself in—and possibly the last.

"Ah, Mister Potter—" Dumbledore's voice was wispy "—Francois said you were quite panicked. I apologise for not hearing your knocking; a headmaster can become quite engrossed in his duties." His blue eyes were luminous over his half-moon spectacles which made Harry quite feel like he was being x-rayed. "Is there something the matter?"

Harry sucked in a breath, wondering where to begin—_how_ to begin. He decided it would be best to start quite honestly since there was really no other way of explaining it.

"Well," he said, "I'm not sure how to explain. I tried explaining it to Ron and Hermione—" this earned a surprised look "—but it didn't go down too well. It's just…" Just what? He didn't have any idea what to do, who to turn to, who to trust? He didn't have any way of preventing this thing that was going to happen tomorrow? "Sir, something has happened to me. I know what it is but I don't know how to… fix it."

"Well, Harry, that is one of the more common qualities of being human, but do go on."

"Right, yes. Well, all right." Harry exhaled heavily. "This is going to sound really unbelievable and you're probably going to think I'm lying or talking absolute… rubbish… But, I'm not who I am. I mean, I'm Harry, but I'm not this Harry." Much to his surprise, Dumbledore was serenely calm. Harry waited for that moment when the old man would start laughing, but it didn't come. In its absence there was a spark of hope. "Well—it started, er, back at the Ministry. Not your Ministry, but my Ministry. There was me, Ron, Hermione… Ginny, Luna and Neville… And a couple of people from the Order: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Lupin, Tonks, Sirius…

"We were there looking for a prophecy. I found it, and we were being chased by Death Eaters. There was Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle's fathers, a few others: We ended up in this weird room with a lot of rocks and this veil. We were all fighting, and then Bellatrix Lestrange sent a killing curse at Sirius. I sort of lost it. I mean—she _killed_ him, Professor. She killed Sirius Black, and I went after her. I think I used the Cruciatus curse, but there was this voice inside me, telling me to kill her. And then _he_ appeared, Professor—Voldemort. Voldemort was there, and I hid from him, and then you came and the two of you fought.

"But Voldemort was using all these spells, and I had to get help so I went back to the room where everybody else was fighting, and I sort of lost my marbles a bit. Nearly everyone got hurt, but I told Lupin that you were battling Voldemort. And I was just so hurt, Professor, there was a Death Eater who was threatening to slit Hermione's throat and I just ran away. I was going to see her _die_. After Sirius… I couldn't…

"So, I ran off and I found this room. Department of Mysteries. Had a lot of brains in lava lamps or something, and then I found these time-turners. I wasn't thinking about what I was doing, I just picked one up, and I…" Harry looked away, brows drawn. "I didn't stop, Professor. It fell out of my hands, and next thing I knew I was sitting in the Slytherin common room. Ended up punching Malfoy in the face."

Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, and then he said almost kindly: "That must have been difficult to go through, Harry. Yet you understand I can't simply believe you right off the bat. This is a very rare piece of magic you're claiming, Mister Potter. The last known person to attempt this magic was Herpo the Foul, amongst other things. Everybody else has either died or… never come back."

"So you're saying it's possible, Professor? You believe me?"

"Well, let it be said that you are usually unnervingly calm, and according to Francois you were making quite a song and dance downstairs. Were I any other man, I might suggest that your career in the acting industry would go far—but as it turns out, I am not any other man, and I am not fooled so easily." He gave Harry one of those looks which made him feel completely naked, as if he couldn't hide anything even if he wanted to. It was the look of the omniscient—or the nosy—or the experienced, whichever one you'd prefer. "So, yes, this magic is completely possible. Mostly unexplored, but possible—and very, very dangerous…" Well, that made Harry feel better, knowing that at least Dumbledore had some sort of grasp on this strange concept. That spark of hope began to bloom, which Dumbledore could see because he rounded himself up and continued on very tenderly. "You understand time-turning laws?"

"Yes," replied Harry, "Hermione was using a time-turner all the way through the third year to attend all of her classes. When we used it to save Sirius, she told me that we couldn't allow ourselves to be seen—by anybody, not even the real us."

"Miss Granger was quite right." Harry was disappointed when Dumbledore neglected to make a comment about Harry's purported knowledge of the events of year three. If it was going unsaid, then Harry was all right with that—it could help the headmaster see eye to eye with him. "Interfering in history is never a prudent idea, nor is it fun. Wizards who have been foolish with time-turners have been known to relive the same moment of their lives over and over again—until they die. Naturally, those wizards are always mad when it comes for the time to drop off. The most threatening element of danger in this particular situation would be—Ah, well, let me use an example which should be familiar to you: If you truly are the opposite of the person I see before me, then it is a secret I can guard. If certain things were to happen to alert others of this change in persona—a Quidditch match, for example—then people, relationships and facts change. Things turn into things they are not destined to be; things come into contact with ideas which were always supposed to stay in the mind. Do you understand me, Harry?"

"I think so, Professor… Though _I've_ changed, everything else needs to stay the same."

"Precisely, Harry. For the time being, anyway. I think it would be the best, ah, game plan, as our American friends might say. You know next to nothing of your own situation, and there is research I must do on both the magic and the matter. That is to talk nothing of the conflict in the wizarding world. I assume you have a grasp of this conflict?"

"Yes—Well, my one, anyway. Things are a lot different but I get the gist of it, if I have the right end of the stick… which reminds me, Professor. There's something else as well, something about Professor Snape."

"And what about Professor Snape?"

"Well, after the Quidditch match he pulled me, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle over to one side and went through some plans with us about something that's happening tomorrow. It's Death Eater business, Professor. He didn't say what it was that was going on, but he told us nobody else could know. Me and Malfoy have to go to the Room of Requirement tomorrow and go to this cupboard, and we're to meet Crabbe and Goyle and the rest of the Death Eaters on the other side. Professor Snape said that there were preparations, and if they didn't get done then Voldemort wouldn't be happy." Harry bit his lip. "I think Snape is a Death Eater. And I think my parents are, too."

If Dumbledore was perplexed, alienated or even simply troubled by Harry's information then he wasn't showing it. Calmness seemed to be the old man's default. He steepled his fingers in thought, touching his brow, and then he raised those shocking eyes back at Harry and spoke loftily.

"Harry, there are certain things which you cannot know. You may already be enlightened with some of these things, but others will most definitely be out of your reach. As much as it pains me, I must keep you in the dark for everybody's sake. If you trust me enough to tell me of what has occurred, then I must ask you to put even more faith in me and ask you to be unquestioning of my judgement."

Harry was stunned. His mouth gaped. "But, Professor—Can't you… These people! There are _spies!_"

"You must, Harry. Everybody's safety depends on it. If you act out, then there will be terrible repercussions for everybody, no matter how far away in the world. Nobody must know."

"I can't just stay as I am, Professor—as I was, I mean."

"And what do you propose, Harry? To hand the Death Eaters over to the Ministry? To refuse the Dark Lord in his wishes? He already has control over nearly everything we own, Harry; it is reality. Everybody knows this, no matter how desperate the Daily Prophet may be to tidy matters away. You very well may cause a war when we aren't ready for it, Harry. As good-willed as your intentions may be, there are people's lives at risks. Families and towns could be swamped by Dark magic, cities destroyed in the backlash. Politics changes, people take sides, armies arise. It isn't the time to wage war just yet. We must be ready, and we must bide our time. Until that time comes, you just have to sit still and keep low. I will do my best to work with you in your situation, but the school needs me more than you do. I'm sorry if this comes off as brash or cruel, but this is how things are. There were days when I could save people as much as I liked, but I am an old man. We must be careful."

Harry was rendered speechless. He didn't suppose there was any argument against him that would make him see sense. But it did put things in perspective. He'd been foolish for the past day not to gather information on his surroundings. He should've been pally with Malfoy and the rest of Slytherin house, hogged old copies of the Daily Prophet to put himself up to scratch on the situation. Instead he'd been childish, worrying about a Quidditch house cup instead of the wellbeing of the world around him. He had understood that it was a world still heavily affected by Voldemort, after all. There was no excusing that kind of ignorance and selfishness; the best he could do was make it up from now on.

"All right," he said finally, "all right. I'll do it. I've got no other choice."

Dumbledore was smiling now. "Oh, we always have a choice, Harry. Choice defines us, after all."

"And do I have a choice to not go to this thing with Malfoy tomorrow?"

"Yes," came the reply, "but you are a better man than that. Tomorrow's event must go ahead as planned, and you are to remain unquestioning. To live and suffer humbly is much more valiant than dying honourably. Death is, after all, but a blip and I believe you have a particular fire for life which our Harry Potter would usually disguise with sharp wit and rather belittling humour."

"I suppose that means you want me to be a Slytherin idiot, then."

"Not all Slytherins are bad, Harry. There is a rather unflattering stereotype that depicts Slytherin house as cunning and without morals. In fact, Slytherin house represents the pensive and the thoughtful, much like Ravenclaw. Both produce excellent politicians. Merlin was a Slytherin, you know."

Harry's eyebrows went into his hairline. That was something he didn't know.

"It is a fact most Gryffindors like to keep hushed up, but I like to think of it as a mark towards Slytherin's excellent name. As a fellow Gryffindor, I am sure Mister Weasley will think of me as a traitor." Dumbledore chuckled. "I suppose I ought to hire Hagrid as protection."

Oh! Ron!

"Professor, that reminds me—I went to Ron and Hermione before I came to see you, like I said. I thought maybe they could help me. A bit stupid really… But, I don't think they believe me. It's just that you said nobody else could know about this."

"Ah, thank you for telling me. A Gryffindor would have kept that covered up. No matter. I can arrange for Mister Weasley and Miss Granger to have tonight Obliviated, so long as you don't mention it to them again. Have you talked with anybody else?"

"Well… Malfoy told Snape I'd been Imperiused. Snape didn't seem to think so. I don't know if he believes any of it, though. He could've just been lying."

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry. And, yes, that is a matter you shouldn't concern yourself with. As I said, you must trust me, and I am sure that Professor Snape has always been gracious towards you in some manner."

"Not exactly," muttered Harry darkly, "he used to take house points off me whenever he could. I sneezed once, and he gave me detention for interrupting him during a lesson."

"Which house did you belong to?"

"Gryffindor."

Dumbledore's mouth widened into a fond grin. "Ah. That is probably the root cause of it. That and I think he may still have had a feud with your father."

"Yeah, he did."

"Well, it's no matter now. Keep your head down, and act normally. I can turn a blind eye or two towards behaviour which would normally merit detention, as long as there is no danger for anybody. In your ruse I might ask you to be moderate. I shouldn't like to aggravate Argus's arthritis any more than I already do."

"Right."

"Good, good." He drew himself up, his great old chest expanding. "Now, is that everything?"

Harry turned his eyes to a little grandmother clock stood on the desk: it was one of those pink affairs, encased in a bell jar, with plastic pillars. Dumbledore must have salvaged it from a charity shop and used magic on it to make it run without batteries because even Mrs Figg wouldn't have that on her mantelpiece. It read half eight, which was after hours; he'd have to sneak back down to the dungeons under the cloak and he most certainly couldn't be bothered waiting around for twenty minutes for some drunken sod to come out.

"Do you know the password to the Slytherin common room?"

"In fact, I do. This week's password is _Manticore mammary._"

Harry almost gagged.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's notes: <em>**_I claim no ownership over the copyrighted _Harry Potter_ materials from which my fanfiction is derived. All rights and reserves go to J.K. Rowling, author of the novels, and Warner Bros. which owns the film rights of the films upon which this work is partially based. I own my own creativity and personal interpretation of the works, characters, events, canon and concepts but nothing more. Unfortunately I wish the characters were mine, but they aren't!_

__As another important note, I have to tell you I have a vague idea of where this story is going. It'll be based on the original material, of course, but so is most fanfiction. Think of this as canonical AU if you will; i.e. what could've happened. At any rate, **please review** so I know that you're happy with this and wish it to continue.__


	5. V: As A Lion I Advanced

_**Please view with the following options for an optimal reading experience: the smallest font size; Sans-serif font; 3/4 story width; no story line spacing; and with the light brightness/contrast option. Thank you.**_

—x—

Harry couldn't sleep.

His eyes went past the starry fixtures in the canopy of his four-poster bed, but no amount of darkness could send him on his way to his dreams. All the lamps had been extinguished, and the lake was lapping quietly at the window, and even if Harry had chosen to down a mug of hot chocolate there would still be that terrible gnawing feeling of being trapped.

He had chosen to stay a Slytherin as per Dumbledore's wise words. That choice alone was brave of him which Harry very well knew but there was that niggling sensation that he was going to regret tomorrow's event. It worried him far more than the prospect of meeting his parents for the first time when he thought of it because at least he _knew_ his parents if only in theory; this event was unknown, a sphere of mystery to him which he could not pierce regardless of how much time he spent guessing. He supposed, he thought, that he could act when it came to it, do the don't-speak-unless-you're-spoken-to thing. He might make a few mistakes, cause a few hiccups, but he could put it down to nerves. They'd expect natural nerves of Malfoy, wouldn't they?

What really terrified him was the feeling of the unknown which in turn created a sense of being cornered since he had no idea in Hell what was in store for him. He supposed it wasn't bad enough that he couldn't handle it since Malfoy had been giddy and gleeful about it, but that was _Malfoy_ and Harry was always under the opinion that if he himself didn't like something, Malfoy would love it.

He took it with a pinch of salt, and turned over uneasily when Malfoy himself strode in around quarter to eleven. Harry supposed he might be tipsy, even a bit drunk, but despite the bottle of Firewhiskey he'd been hugging he looked surprisingly sober. Harry sat up to say hello but saw the careful, guarded expression in those steely eyes. Something was working behind Malfoy's mask.

"You all right, Draco?" Malfoy sat on the edge of his own bed to pull off his shoes. "You look a bit ill."

"Yeah… No…" Malfoy's voice was small. "Just been thinking about tomorrow. It's sort of hit me a bit." He bent down to line them up and push them underneath the bed. "I've been excited for a while but… I don't know. Maybe it's just been nerves." When he sat back up his eyes went out to the window, where he stared for a couple of quiet minutes. Harry chose not to disturb him, more out of curiosity than respect. "While you were gone I was thinking. Blaise, Ishmael, Pansy… even Crabbe and Goyle—tonight's the last night I'm going to see them in a while, and most of them are none the wiser. I was thinking that nothing's going to be the same after this. I used to think that was all right and I was cool with it, but it creeps up on you—that feeling, I mean."

Harry nodded. He was sure Slytherin Harry would've shared Malfoy's sentiments; anybody their age would've because it sounded like a terrifying deal. It had him wondering just exactly what it was—what the worst it could be. Were they going to be put under some sort of test? Were they going to be mutilated, disfigured, tortured? Placed under the Imperius curse? Made to fight each other to the death? Harry had to prepare himself—and though he knew he _was_ prepared, Slytherin Harry at least, he had to admit that his usual lion's courage was very lacking at that moment. He had to go on for Dumbledore and for the greater good: that's what he kept telling himself.

"I choose not to think about it," said Harry, "just get it over and done with once we're there. Then it's old news and there's not much we can do about it but live with it."

"But I thought you would've been freaking out, too—or, you know, thinking it over twice."

"We've made the deal, it's set and ready to go, and tomorrow's waiting for us like… like a prophecy. What do you suppose we could do about it, anyway?"

Malfoy went still, dipping into his thoughts. Harry watched the way he became like a marble statue, stone legs locked around the edge of the bed. Against the green hangings, Malfoy looked strangely out of place: the way he procrastinated, considered—it was a side of Malfoy Harry had never before seen. It almost made him seem… human. Which he was, of course. He was completely human—just a misguided one at that.

Malfoy's shoulders went tense. His lips became a thin line, and then he undressed and pulled on his sleeping boxers quickly. When he was finished, he frowned in Harry's direction and gave him a stern nod.

"There's nothing to do," he said thickly. "Everything will be perfect. We were meant for this, Harry. Me and you. Malfoy and Potter. Draco and Harry. We'll be fine."

Harry supposed that Malfoy, behind that brave charade, really was as scared as he. The way he acted and moved and spoke was unnatural. He wasn't at ease at all, now suffering from last-minute panic which Harry didn't even have the freedom of expressing in front of his best friend—his _faux_ best friend. There was definitely something fearful behind those eyes, however, something that made him just as human as Harry himself. Perhaps even more so, without the lion's valour.

Harry thought he could put forth the effort to refer to him as 'Draco'.

—x—

"Professor Snape's going to slit our throats."

"I agree."

Harry's jaw was on the floor as he surveyed the Slytherin common room and the wreckage left from the party; Malfoy—_Draco_—was stood next to him, gaping in his own way. To him it looked as if someone had sent out an invitation to a herd of African elephants: to Harry it appeared as if another mountain troll had stomped its way over everything capable of breaking; if the common room had been an atmosphere of casual laidback chic last night, it was now a dumping ground emitting strange, strangled noises. Harry suspected the Christmas tree to be one of them, whose branches were lying bedraggled at the foot of the mantelpiece onset by a nest of pixie hatchlings, but he couldn't be sure if the decorative tapestries had been bewitched to sing hymns in a robotic tone or not.

That was to say nothing of the state of the walls, or the floor, or the stains dirtying every bit of fabric the eye could see. Where there were off-colour splotches of Firewhiskey there were also burn marks like the entirety of Slytherin house had been enjoying a jolly good cigar before they came to the unfortunate realisation that there were no ashtrays. Harry spotted that a large pile of the required fourth year books had been completely ruined; where the pages had been, painstakingly scrawled by hand, there were now leaves infested with black and yellow caterpillars. A pair of tawny owls in the corner was fighting over the largest one of them while a fat, white, cross-eyed cat batted a dead spider about in its paws.

_Good,_ Harry thought, _not only is the common room a mess, it's also now an insect enclosure._

He shook himself quickly, though; he had bigger things to worry about. The others would come down soon after having slept off a couple of terrible hangovers and they'd clear the mess up if they had any sense to not want to piss off Snape—who, from several low mumblings, was getting more catty than ever. Harry understood why: it wasn't easy after all to keep up a squeaky clean persona when underneath you were as evil as evil gets with the exception of Voldemort.

"C'mon," he said to Draco, "let's get breakfast. L-rd knows we'll need it."

Draco nodded, yet his face was empty. Ironic, wasn't it, how he seemed to be getting colder feet than Harry in this affair? Perhaps the whole thing was going to be terrible—which Harry already _knew_ by instinct—or perhaps Draco wasn't as brave as he made himself out to be. Either way, Harry didn't blame him. With a somewhat regretful pat on the back, he headed towards the Great Hall with a solemn Draco at his heels.

—x—

Breakfast lasted a few hours, which Harry supposed was nice, and they sat together with a slow stream of Slytherins. Word went around the Hall that there had been a massive party down in the dungeons to celebrate the Quidditch success of the day before so naturally the Gryffindors were in a sour mood. Ravenclaw weren't too bothered by it as they were confident they'd secured their place for the Cup, and Hufflepuff were both positively livid and positively irked at the same time. Harry's threat must've gotten out into the ranks, which wasn't exactly what he'd intended but he saw that Zacharias Smith give him a feeble smile that made his mouth turn a little less down and a little more into a thin line.

As they chomped through slogs of bacon and toast, beans and eggs, tea and pumpkin juice, Harry dissolved into his own little bubble. He couldn't help but feel the absence of usual breakfast-time clatter from the Gryffindor table, so kept looking over at them and kept having his heart stabbed repeatedly every time he did. He sighed sadly when he saw Ron and Hermione sweep past like nothing had ever happened last night but it was for the best he thought. No longer would he be the freak that tried to befriend them, just the freak that taunted and bullied them.

Ron shot Harry a particularly venomous glare at which point he moved on to look at Ginny's head of hair. His heart softened a little before he realised that she was no more accommodating than her brother, and after everything that had gone on so far and was about to go on Harry couldn't bare looking at anyone else besides the people at his own table. He made idle conversation with Goyle, purposely avoided Crabbe who he thought would blurt out their secret, and then joined in a game of exploding snap when the both of them left together.

When their spaces were vacated, Harry was very aware that there was an hour until doomsday. His hands, much like Draco's, were clammy and unsteady to the point that Blaise forced him to put down the cards so as not to burn himself should they involuntarily explode. When the clock chimed—or sang in Bulgarian much to Dumbledore's amusement—both Harry and Draco slipped a fizzing toffee into a cup of tea and drank.

They both immediately turned an unflattering shade of pale, sickly green; bags came under their eyes and they broke out into a sweat. Draco's stomach rumbled which made Harry feel quite ill, but he too jumped up when the other boy ran off out of the Hall. There was a scape of confusion as the boys left in a hurry, but Harry heard Blaise comment that they'd both been sporting terrible hangovers since the early morning and the food must have set them off. As Draco yanked him to the side on a deserted corridor next to the fourth floor staircase, Harry couldn't have been more grateful.

"That was disgusting," he panted; he saw his sickly face reflected in one of the tall windows overlooking an ominous patch of squirming cabbages. Draco nodded in agreement, yet began tugging at the edges of his jumper enthusiastically: the silver cloth of the invisibility cloak tumbled onto his hands—well, Harry assumed so because his hands disappeared. He gawked incredulously. "You went through my things?"

"Oh really, Harry," retorted Draco, "don't you think we have other things to think about? Come on, get under. We've got less than five minutes to meet Snape and I don't fancy sprinting my way up to the seventh corridor. Haven't the stomach for it."

Harry checked his watch (it was a Muggle make, _Omega,_ powered by magic since the batteries presumably went haywire at Hogwarts—Slytherin Harry really was a rich git) and realised that Draco was right. He scooted closer to the other boy and allowed him to throw the cloak over the both of them. Despite the severity of their situation, it was quite comical to have to crouch down so that the cloth covered both their ankles. They were both very obviously nearing six feet—or at least Draco was because despite being lanky Harry had never been very tall.

When they got to the fifth floor without any hiccups, Harry was rather pleased. Actually, _thankful_ was a better word. Only the L-rd knew where Peeves was but if Harry was any sort of Slytherin then he should be glad the Bloody Baron had the poltergeist under his jurisdiction. Perhaps he could turn a blind eye to the ghoul's rather cutting snarls next time.

Draco's breathing was heavy and laboured next to him: was it really that much of an effort? Or perhaps he was panicking; perhaps his heart was seizing up, sending tremors through his body so that he felt sick and dizzy. Harry frowned, stuck his head around the corner of the arched passage to see if the next staircase was properly aligned yet, and then froze when he came face-to-face with Neville Longbottom.

Harry almost called out his name in surprise, or relief, and yet his heart sank when he took in his former friend's face.

Gaunt, emaciated: not the Neville he knew from last year, the chubby Neville with the hamster cheeks and rabbit teeth who struggled with the simplest of disarming spells. This was a Neville who towered over him and was as thin as a rake with knees that seemed to knock even as he stood perfectly still. He paused in front of Harry, frowned underneath his shock of untidy brown hair, and then sighed.

It was as if he were a Dementor rattling out all the sadness he thrived on. Harry's heart panged painfully as he realised that not even twice in the past couple of days had he given thought to his friend. So wrapped-up in his newfound euphoria had he been that he'd neglected the fact that this loyal friend of his was now carrying what had been his burden. For a moment Harry felt that pressure sit back on his shoulders and he almost cried.

He wanted to pat Neville on the shoulder and tell him how very sorry was and that yes, he could empathise with him—but this wasn't the time, or the place, or the reality. If Harry had been a menace to Ron and Hermione he could only envision the things he'd said and done to poor Neville. The look in the Gryffindor's eyes was battered and bruised, an iron ship of crushed happiness. Or maybe he'd never been happy in the first place: maybe he still found it difficult to make friends as he did back in Gryffindor Harry's world?

Harry felt the air brush against the cloak as Neville swept by and began to descend the staircase. He tried to catch a glimpse of the boy's forehead, but Neville kept his gaze to the floor and mumbled apologies as a gaggle of students bumped its way past him. A clammy hand caught his arm and reeled him back around the corner as the students passed to enter a sixth-floor corridor above.

"Don't," said Draco. "Now's not the time to cast a hex at him. We've got to go. We've got two minutes, and I don't want Snape to be any crabbier than he already is."

Ah, yes, of course. Harry's momentary lapse receded to the shadows of his mind and quietly he snuck up the last two staircases with Draco in tow until they stood before an ornate door wreathed from iron and wood. A quick glance around told them there were no students hanging around and carefully they went past the door and gave a small sigh of relief when it snapped shut behind them. It could have been a ghost for anyone who had seen the door opening and closing by itself.

The corridor was just as Harry remembered it: bright, stone walls, a gallery of paintings dominated by sleeping figures and chatting children, brackets of torches giving that sort of gloomy fireside glow to little alcoves and notches in the corridor's walls. Smaller arches lead off to other parts of the floor; at one end there was a large door, smaller than the one they'd just passed through, which Harry knew to lead through to the Gryffindor corridor (he had traversed not long ago, after all). The other end of the corridor made a bend, curtained by thick windows and overhead vaults in stone as ancient as the castle itself. It was down there they had to go.

Draco made a strange noise behind him; Harry looked to see that he was looking increasingly nauseated. He didn't foresee Draco bending over to puke all over his shoes but he gave him an encouraging pat nevertheless. He didn't care much for Draco personally, after all: it inconvenienced him that Draco was losing the steel nerve of yesterday in favour of jelly-legs but he could understand it. Or could he? Hadn't he had a personal audience with Voldemort several times? And hadn't Draco also sat in the same room as him, dined at the same table, kept the same company? Surely he should been idolising the Dark Lord, not looking pale and sickly at the thought of the task ahead.

Unless it really was that bad.

Harry pulled him along after getting a quick look at the time; he was slow to walk, but if Harry could accredit him anything it was that he seemed to understand the consequences of his actions and therefore his duty. With a weak stride in his step he kept pace, and only stopped when they both stood before the lengthy expanse of stone wall that Harry had visited to access the Come and Go Room.

He knew the drill only too well—and so did Draco, it seemed. That worried Harry quite a bit.

They walked past it three times: to one end of the long corridor, then back, then to the other end, and finally back at the stone wall opposite the Barnabas tapestry in which trolls were attempting graceful pliés with little success. They gave each other one final look, to see Snape striding to meet them, and watched as the wall created a wide set of doors through which they entered. This alone gave Snape the signal that they were there and though he seemed a little miffed that they were not already inside waiting for him he said nothing as they shed the cloak and moved into the belly of the secret room.

It really was nothing to how it had been last time: not small, compact, room enough for a class of students to practise spells inside as Harry remembered it. Not equipped with wooden dummies or a hearth or mirrors: it was simply filled to the brim with old bits of junks and lost treasures. Some distance away, which may have been a football pitch in length or maybe five or six miles, was a gargantuan mountain of furniture looking set to topple at any given moment, and next to it a sky of paper cranes hanging solemnly on strings. Somewhere to the right there was a screech which sounded all too familiar to Harry, but he had no time or worry for Cornish Pixies at the moment; there was a plethora of other junk hidden away in the room separating them, and he thought it would be unfitting to fret over something so relatively harmless as blue pixies.

The three of them trailed a winding path to the left and stopped at a crossroads. On one corner there was a vicious looking contraption, a pyramid cabinet with two sweeping doors meeting at a devilish point. It stood on three legs, which Harry thought might make it rickety and unstable were in not supported by magic, but its sleek black face gave it the air of old power and strength. He understood that it was nothing to be afraid of—its only crime was the place to which it would lead or so he presumed.

Snape craned his head backwards as he took the invisibility cloak from Draco's hands. Harry felt a sharp twinge of discomfort; that was _his_ possession and the only heirloom from his family. He eyed it for a moment before he heard the teacher point his wand in all directions and give a prompt, _"Homenum revelio."_ The search returned no results besides the pixies, about which Snape seemed pleased. Harry, on the other hand—and Draco, he was sure—wasn't quite so happy with this development. What he wouldn't now give for someone to come bursting from that old moth-eaten rack of fur coats at his side and rescue him from the task he had to perform.

"We're alone," came the professor's unflattering drawl, "which means you have succeeded where Crabbe and Goyle did not." Harry and Draco exchanged a look of alarm, yet Snape cut past. "A student followed them into the room, so a memory charm was in order. You should both be thankful that this student will only recall tripping over a trap laid by Peeves and hitting her head on the floor. Should you both see Hestia Carrow, do refrain from performing any questionable activities which may jog her memory of the events this afternoon."

Harry and Draco gave quick nods: surely Snape was irked behind his ever-disgusted mask. Harry had been revising even in his sleep the outlines that Snape had delivered yesterday. He was supposed to enter first, and Draco after him, and all of that had been ruined (all the more by the snooping Hestia Carrow). Would this have created any complications? Were these painstakingly-formulated plans now ruined? Harry hated to think of the consequences. He looked sharp as Snape opened the doors of the cupboard.

It was a crawl space inside, not much smaller than the chute leading to the Chamber of Secrets. Harry knew it was he who had to enter first; he slid onto the sturdy shelf inside, tucked in his legs, and took one last look at Hogwarts. Draco's face was pale; he really did look as if he was going to shed the contents of his stomach this time. Whether Snape was impassive or not was beyond him but he knew from the way things had been spoken yesterday that much hinged on this endeavour and for that he knew Snape to be concerned.

Draco offered him a weak, empathetic look. "See you, Harry." And then Snape gave a flick of his wand, and the doors cast Harry into complete and utter darkness. A moment later, he felt the shifting of atmosphere, and a blast of stuffy air came his way.

—x—

"What's that?"

"Dunno, could be 'im. Snape said it'd be around this time. Get out your wand."

Harry gripped the insides of the cupboard as his head span: it felt very much as if he had just been pushed through a tiny tube and his body had been stretched out like a flimsy piece of spaghetti. He patted his chest and felt the hard shape of his wand, and then squinted when the doors of the cupboard opened and his vision was filled with the greasy, unwashed face of a man he only knew to be the shopkeeper of Borgin and Burkes.

"You—are you Harry Potter?"

The shopkeeper's putrid breath made Harry scrunch his face, but he nodded firmly and attempted to slide himself forwards and put his feet on the floor—but a wand stopped him, and Harry had to pause. Never had he liked Borgin (it was said Burke had disappeared years ago for reasons unknown) and now that he was face-to-face with him he could only think of his encounter in the second year during which he'd accidentally landed in Knockturn Alley and listened to the dark, questionable conversation between the owner and Lucius Malfoy.

"Of course I am," said Harry. He took a stab in the dark and raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "Is your memory really that poor, Borgin, or don't you value the business of pureblood families like my own? I don't think my father would like your attitude."

Borgin's lip went to curl into a little snarl but he collected himself and gave a bow. Harry knew it was too risky to do what he'd just done, but it was worth it. Dumbledore's request that he play the game meant that this disguise was essential. If he couldn't even fool this shopkeeper into thinking he really was the callous Slytherin he purportedly was, then he had no chance with the real Death Eaters. Harry stared past him coolly and caught the eye of Borgin's associate.

"Mister Potter," came the ambling voice, "so nice to see you. We been anticipatin' your arrival, sir."

"Really?" Harry's brogue was bored. "Draco's yet to follow. When we're both here, I trust you know what to do—" a clear threat "—I've had enough of your idiocy, and I wouldn't want to think you'd be a spanner in the works. I knew this place was going to the dogs, but this level of customer service is awful."

Harry wasn't sure what he'd just said, exactly, or what he meant by it, but it sounded villainous enough. He caught the look exchanged between Borgin and the dark-skinned associate and wondered if that was really how Slytherin Harry was: a dick in every sense of the word. A mumbled apology came from the associate, thick with his cockney tone, but Harry was already caught up in the wares of the shop to give a reply.

Dark and dingy as usual, definitely due a decade's worth of spring cleaning. The grimy windows, from the outside, were perhaps a reflection of the nature of the things inside; things you didn't want to touch or get close to for fear of being sullied. Had Harry still been scarred he thought it would've been prickling with the buzz of dark magic in the air; things in here were the sort of artefacts you'd only read about in books or imagine in your dreams. If the stacks and stacks of marked skulls were the norm, then the rows of gnarled, rotted hands would be considered strange—and Harry knew their power. His fingers stung painfully at the memory.

There was a rattle behind him, which he guessed to be Draco passing over through the cabinet, yet something else caught his attention: something was missing from the shop. He understood that with Voldemort's return, more and more of his followers were selling off their dark artefacts which could only account for the rather increased inventory of the shop—that and the fact that it would be rather foolish to purchase any dark objects at such a period. So why then was the cursed necklace gone from its cabinet?

Harry remembered looking at it in his second year before he'd had to zip into the iron maiden to avoid the curious eyes of Draco and his father (as well as Borgin). He remembered it being black and blue or somewhere thereabouts: blue opals? He couldn't remember the exact stones but he knew that they were cursed; he could only imagine the horrors that came from touching it. So who on Earth would buy something so dangerous and _illegal_ at a time when the Ministry would be rising up to jail any and all followers of Voldemort? It curdled Harry's thoughts—but only until he heard the kerfuffle as Draco hopped onto the floor and straightened himself out.

"Mister Malfoy," Borgin was saying, "good to see you, sir. And yer fath—"

"Not the time or place, Borgin," retorted Draco, "ask him yourself."

"Of course, of course," came the dejected reply.

The low candles illuminating the place created halos of light where the windows blocked the little sunlight that peeked over the hills of roofs and growths of chimneys of the other buildings alongside; Draco's face was not only pallid and sallow now, but exaggerated. The circles under his eyes were beginning to deepen as if sleep hadn't given him refuge in a long, long time and if the toffee had made him sick before, his current demeanour was positively beset with pneumonia—which was the excuse they were to give to any enquiring persons as per Snape's orders. Harry's stomach rumbled uneasily despite being filled with the usual breakfast time bits and bats, and gave an unhappy flip as the associate closed the door to the cabinet and rounded on them both.

"Now," he said, and his black gums popped out from behind his top lip to showcase a toothless mouth, "Mister Malfoy, Mister Potter, allow me to introduce meself as Shacklebolt. Déchuel Shacklebolt, but I mostly go by Dec." Shacklebolt? As in, Kingsley Shacklebolt? "Now, you probably 'eard o' me brother, Kingsley, but no matter, no matter. All me allegiance is to the Dark Lord, as is yours, so consider me somethin' of a haven for articles you might not want to be found on yer person—" he caught Harry's curious expression "—not that you'd 'ave items of dubious nature on yerselves, o' course, but just in case yer found yerself to be in a compromisin' position…"

"Yes, yes, Dec, 'urry up," hissed Borgin. He was ogling a large, ugly clock on the wall anxiously. "You ain't 'ere to promote yerself. You know 'e don't like to be kept a-waitin'!"

"Yes, o' course, o' course…" The back of Dec's large, dark hand came to wipe the spittle from the corners of his mouth. He sucked in a breath through his decayed gums, prompting the image of a hungry Dementor. "Yer both a couple minutes late, but not to worry, not to worry… Get yer wits about ye, wands an' all, and we'll be off in a jiffy once yer both nice an' ready."

Whatever 'nice an' ready' meant, Harry was not it; his stomach was in funny little knots as the realisation came over him that he was mere moments away from meeting the Dark Lord as not an enemy but a king and master. That was a hurricane of feelings in and of itself but now was not the time to procrastinate; he'd given Dumbledore his word and if there was anybody in the world he would never betray it was Dumbledore whether life or death. He gave what he thought was a firm nod, looked around once more (the necklace cabinet slipped past his vision), and touched Dec's arm tentatively. Draco did the same, and a moment later they were Apparating.

Not the nicest of things, really, being forced into a tiny test tube and shooting out the other end again, but it had to be done. Bile rose up in Harry's throat as his feet found firm ground once again, and he closed his eyes and sucked in new air as he righted himself. That was his first time Apparating and hopefully it would be his last this year (though he knew one of the sixth year electives was Apparition lessons which he had a strange feeling Slytherin Harry was undertaking as a part of his timetable) since it created such an uneasy feeling in just about every bit of limb he owned.

He was just thinking about emptying his guts when there came a voice which cancelled out every scared, lonely or sad feeling Harry had ever felt. It was soft and mellow, floating on the wind like a rhythm of silk; and it was familiar even though Harry was sure he'd only heard it once or twice…

The graveyard. His mother.

His heart lurched and he had to control himself ever so well to prevent that inevitable spinning around. So badly did his body ache to see her in the flesh, touch her for the first time in conscious memory, and yet he knew it to be out of place and suspicious and probably a sign of embarrassment to whomever else might have been present. He inhaled deeply to temper his rapid heartbeat—a long moment later, he turned around and looked, for the first time, upon his mother's face.

She was as perfect as they all said she was; as he imagined her. Pale skin as if a moon were lit underneath her face, soft features, a cascade of red hair framing two pools of rich green as verdant as spring pastures. She was the image of the siren, holiest of holies, and she was small and timid, and she was his mother. His throat began to tighten and he knew if he didn't look away from her he would burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears.

His father's face was next, sort of like a pit-stop on the track of raging emotion that his mother brought about. Strong, tall, handsome in a way that wasn't ethereal or excessive. Others would've said his mother could've done better, but Harry disagreed; he thought they complimented one another. His father was tall, angular, a sharp ship of iron on a calm sea. He, too, was free of spectacles, yet unlike Harry he was a tad unkempt with his hair. A beast, almost, cold and grey yet not lifeless. A thin smile fought at the corners of his thin lips in a playful kind of manner but he understood the company and the mood and so he kept all expression at bay.

Harry looked at both of them together and understood immediately why his mother had fallen for his father. A good girl always liked her vices, they always said, and that vice was usually a man of disagreeable morality if only in her darkest desires. He was a perfect mix of that—Slytherin Harry, he meant—unearthly in face and cutting in manner.

The angel is a beast, and all that malarkey.

"Draco."

The taut, heavy tone of Lucius Malfoy turned Harry's head: and what he saw shocked him.

Beauty—but untelevised. It wasn't makeup, that much was certain, but there was a sunny shimmer to Lucius Malfoy's face that didn't really belong to anybody normal. His features were smooth, and unblemished, and not even when his face was turned out in the bright shine of the expensive glass lamps did any bags become highlighted or any grey hairs show their faces. All of it was completely natural like Lucius Malfoy was a particular fan of anti-aging potions; for someone in his mid- to late-thirties, he looked exceedingly good and very much _alive_ with his sparkling eyes of grey. How all that was possible while he stood still, Harry could only begin to fathom; he had a very precise lean on his walking stick (a holster of sorts for his elegant black wand), and his river of hair was ever a constant part of his stance as the muscles holding up his strong body.

Draco gave a stiff nod to his father—was he eager to shun away his ill look in front of his sire?—but relaxed considerably when his mother, Narcissa, leaned to press her lips to his cheek. Her pretty pink lipstick completely contrasted with the white pallet of her face; the only other thing that stood out was the shocking blue of her eyes, oceans to themselves, for even her hair matched the stark shade of her skin. Like Lily she was smaller than her partner, yet framed her sleek body with a tight, champagne-coloured dress which just about covered her ankles. She shared Lucius's strange shimmer and beauty.

"I trust the journey was smooth," came Lucius's difficult voice.

Draco nodded firmly. "There was a small hiccup but Professor Snape took care of it. Crabbe and Goyle, not us."

Harry's father barked out a laugh. "Those two were never the brightest little blighters, eh, Lucius? One of them knocked over dear Narcissa's prized vase here—" it was an ugly Greek affair "—but Lily put it right." It was strange to hear his father talk. He retained all the familiarity of his youth while encapsulating the menacing and gruff with effortless ease. "It's a scary task tonight, but you boys are ready, aren't you?"

Harry gave an automatic nod; the Malfoys looked expectantly at their son and loosened up when he gave his confirmation, too. The parents quickly rounded on the boys and hushed them through a tall, arched doorway opening out into an impressive lobby and staircase. Harry looked around in wonder at the Gothic look of the place, and almost tripped when he was ushered up the carpeted stone steps. He caught Draco's hand reflexively and found it to be clammy—he was still as nervous as Harry felt.

It was strange, though: why were they being rushed, and why were their parents so calm? Perhaps it wasn't as bad as he made it out to be… or perhaps they simply had balls of steel that Harry did not. He shivered as he turned the corner of the stairs, and mounted the last few steps which opened up onto a sweeping hall of ebony oak. Really he shouldn't have been surprised to behold the spectacle that was the… sitting room? dining room? game room? of Malfoy Manor yet in all honesty he was so used to waking up to the lively, homely humdrum of The Burrow that he'd forgotten what stately elegance looked like.

Well, if Ron's house lacked this level of neatness and financial expression, Draco's home lacked the warmth and life that the Weasleys had in abundance. He instantly preferred the home of his best friend—Ron, that was, not Draco—and wished more than anything that this was actually a bad dream and that he'd quickly wake up to the smell of eggs and bacon on the stove and Mrs. Weasley shoving a pot of tea and a rack of toast under his nose because he'd woken up so late on Christmas morning that he'd completely missed the mini-feast of English breakfast.

It also occurred to him that Malfoy Manor might be his home for Christmas, and that was a depressing thought indeed—yet he tried not to think of it given the current situation. Instead he absorbed the long, dark table which could easily seat a king and his court. Thick, padded chairs flanked its sides, each one comfortable enough to support a lordly head of house; a few were occupied but others were mostly tucked away. A house elf ambled along with a silver platter in hand, balancing crystal wine glasses which refilled as soon as they were empty. The sorry state of the poor thing tickled Harry's sympathy and instead of donning his cruel disguise—which Slytherin Harry undoubtedly wore—towards the creature he simply said nothing and took in the occupants of the room.

Next to the crackling fire was the woman that Harry despised more than any other woman in the world; more than any other person in the room. Her dark, springy hair tumbled down her back; it trailed haphazardly over her shoulders, was pinned here and there at the sides to keep it away from her face. She was pale and sickly unlike the Malfoys, and her eyes were bright and wild like those of a child. Her small mouth, previously clasped shut, broadened into a repulsive smile that exposed her cracked teeth—a smile burned into Harry's old, imperfect retinae and carried over to new, keen memory. The hot flash of vomit tumbled in his stomach, and yet the thing that sickened him most of all was the fact that he had to return her smile with loving eagerness as she went over and took both him and Draco into her arms and gave them tight, firm hugs.

"Draco," she cooed, "Harry, I've missed you both. Harry, you've stopped writing to me. Last letter was fifth of October and now look at the date! We'll have to rectify that, m'boy."

The affectionate tenderness of Bellatrix Lestrange was even more disturbing than her psychopathic madness. Harry knew both of them: the latter more than the other yet in spite of Sirius's death he'd rather it remain that way for a long, long time. Bellatrix was disgusting enough to look at; he didn't want her hugs or her kisses, her doting attention. He didn't want to know the feeling of being pressed against her bosom like a precious diamond. He was none of that to her...

"Harry," said Lily sternly. She clearly read his stiff body language. "Aunt Bella hasn't seen you since August. Do be a little more receptive."

Harry paused, and then coiled an arm around Bellatrix's slender shoulders and gave her a tight squeeze. A little _too_ tight, actually, but that was on purpose. Any pain he caused her was nothing next to the amount of pain he'd like to inflict upon her under the Cruciatus curse. A dangerous consideration took root in his mind for a fleeting second and yet he understood that around him were a dozen or so witches and wizards that would rip him limb from limb if he tried anything so bold. And really? Dumbledore would say that Bellatrix wasn't as bad as Voldemort so there really was no reason for Harry's coldness—at least she had been kind to Slytherin Harry, right?

Dumbledore, Dumbledore. He had to think of _Dumbledore_.

"Ooh," she remarked, "getting strong, aren't we?" Her wicked eyes flashed around at the others. "Not as strong as tonight though, eh?"

Lily gave a polite laugh; James beamed. Their animation dwarfed the minimalism that the Malfoy couple expressed; their faces barely moved an inch and yet they were laughing, too. Quite like china or glass, Harry thought—fragile somehow, elegant. Bellatrix released him and moved in to pat Draco's cheeks affectionately. Well, at least she hadn't touched _his_ face; he'd still be scrubbing himself later, though. Knowing her fingers homed the wand that tortured poor Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity was reason enough to make Harry seethe.

"Thanks, Aunt Bella," mumbled Draco; much to Harry's surprise it seemed Draco wasn't too keen on her, either. Talk about crazy aunts.

She let him go, too, and then gave a wide berth with her arms. Harry turned his attention to the other folk in the room, some of whom he recognised and some of whom he didn't. There was Crabbe and Goyle stood in a corner with their fathers and appearing every inch as stupid; a small, weedy, Albanian bloke Harry remembered from the scene back at the Ministry of Magic mere days ago named Antonin Dolohov; the traitor Peter Pettigrew, as fat and balding and scummy as ever; a straw-haired blond man Harry had seen in the Daily Prophet under the moniker of 'Yaxley'; a tubby, red-haired woman with pale, round features whom Harry did not recognise—but a woman who was undoubtedly the antithesis of his mother despite their common colouring; a beefy beast of a man, covered in hair with a face that wasn't quite human, by the name of Fenrir Greyback—this had been the werewolf to attack Professor Lupin; and finally, a hook-nosed, dog-eyed wizard with a broad chest and a deadpan glare whom Harry had never seen before, though he noted that he and the red-haired witch both wore the same clothing design.

It was slightly surreal to stand among these people: in the real world, these people were his enemies. Every single one bar his parents would have grabbed him at the first chance and presented him to Voldemort as a lamb for the slaughter. Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr. along with Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew had watched Voldemort's resurrection; they'd also clapped and jeered as Voldemort placed a finger on his scar, and as they duelled. Greyback would have done the same—would have bitten Harry given half the chance, too. And now Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were his friends, and Bellatrix Lestrange was some couth family member behind closed doors. And his parents? Loyal to the enemy who would kill them given a single fleeting reason. He didn't know why they did it—why didn't they choose to run away? Voldemort couldn't find them all. Without followers he was a weakling of an individual. A killer, yes, and dangerous, yes, but surely not undefeatable. Nobody was immortal.

Sadly that wasn't the reality so for now Harry had to make do. He offered a firm nod to the rest of them as if he felt the tiniest inkling of respect for them. The looks they returned were not familiar but they were not hostile. Admiring. Something like that. It made Harry feel uncomfortable, so instead he looked back to his mother and said the first true thing since his arrival in his new world:

"It's good to see you, Mum. I missed you."

Her expression melted a little, and like a shy schoolgirl she looked away. She looked young, he realised, but not unwise and unlearned. She stepped forwards and clasped him to her as if she would lose him forever. Her heart thudded vibrantly, and he knew that she had missed him with the passion of a thousand burning suns, too.

She smelled like lavender and roses, and expensive perfumes which had never really left the clothes she wore no matter how much she washed them. It created a little bubble that was individual to his mother. She smelled complete, and whole, a real, corporeal person that he'd tried all his life to imagine—and now here it was. Death Eater or not, it didn't matter. She was his mother. She was all he needed.

He pulled away before tears could form, and he looked to his father. He was shorter than his sire, naturally, and of less build—but by all other accounts he was definitely a little James. There came a wolfish smile from his father that Harry returned with vigour, and then that moment of reunion was ended when Bellatrix made a little coughing noise much like Dolores Umbridge had done at the start-of-year feast. Everyone turned their eyes to her, and she took count of everyone there, and when she was satisfied she pointed her gnarled wand to the space above the table and conjured a picture of a glowing, white orb.

"Now," she began, as if she were suddenly a Ministry official, "now that we're all here, let's take stock of the plan. Vincent and Gregory arrived on time, boys—" she said this to Draco and Harry "—and made the necessary preparations. Bedrooms have been prepared. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the plan, you won't be staying in your usual adjoining bedrooms." She gave Harry a sad look. "So, m'boy, I'm sorry to say the Jacuzzi will be out of bounds during your stay. Instead you'll be moving to the bottom floor of the house, in the north-east-most bedroom."

Her voice went out to Draco. "Draco, you'll be on the top floor, south-west. All your belongings have been moved, but only for the holidays. You understand why." Draco gave a feeble nod. "It's still early afternoon so you boys can still mingle, but at six o'clock dinner is to be served. At seven, you are both to bathe and get ready for the evening. At eight o'clock…" Her voice trailed off; her breath was excited and trembling. "At eight o'clock, the Dark Lord is to arrive. And nine o'clock, everybody will congregate in the garden foyer, and the task shall begin." She looked around pointedly at everybody. Nobody disagreed with her plan of action. "Nobody is to be late: we _all_ understand why."

Everybody's silence was the affirmation Bellatrix needed. Harry looked around at them to search for any cases of _jamais vu_, of confusion, of second-guessing or simply absolute bewilderment because that was his internal territory on the matter at the moment—but nobody's brow was creased with questioning or misunderstanding. They were all as prepared as Slytherin Harry—as he, _Gryffindor_ Harry, should have been.

He got that feeling he often remembered getting back in Muggle primary school. What was now an easy piece of arithmetic would back then have been a mountain of numbers and symbols; everybody in the class but him knew how it worked and he dared not ask the teacher for help for fear of drawing embarrassing attention to himself. The only difference here was that this was now a matter of life or crushing death, and so with nothing but the twitch of his lip, Harry remained silent.

"Good."

Bellatrix dismissed them all then, and Harry wasn't sure which direction to go in. Far away from the Death Eaters, that was clear, but into the arms of his parents or the comfort of Draco's nervousness he didn't know. He was about to suggest something to the other boy, some half-witted joke in light of the awkward dissipation, but Draco was already curling away with his parents. That left Harry alone with his mother and father—the safest place for him.

But _still_. _His mother and father._

He felt his father's firm hand on his shoulder before he heard his mother's soft exhaling; inwards he turned to look upon familiar features disturbed by unfamiliar circumstances. He caught his mother's eyes, then as if by some telepathic connection they guided him out of the room and down a short labyrinth of corridors and passageways guarded by snooty paintings and many curiously empty glass cabinets. A simpleton could guess what was once in those confinements.

It was a comfort, though, to know that his parents knew the secrets of this house almost as if it were their own. Strange; that seemed to say that they were close pals with the Malfoys, but then again—if Bellatrix was admiringly referred to as _Aunt Bellatrix..._ He didn't dwell on it. There were more pressing issues to be dealt with.

"Well, here it is." His mother's quiet tone brought Harry from his reverie. He took stock of the darkened corridor, illuminated by bracketed fires and dim lamps, and then read the newly-polished golden plaque on the door before him.

_Messer Potter._

He gulped. This had all been _well-planned_ in advance. He went to touch the shiny gold doorknob before him when his father batted his hand down and shook his head. "Not yet," he said in response to Harry's curious touch and then locked his own fingers around it.

No wand, no magic, no nothing. The door simply gave way and swung open to reveal a majestic room in tones which were a tad too depressing for Gryffindor-wrought Harry. It was as long as it was wide, a perfect square in loving proportions with annoyingly symmetrical furniture: two cabinets at either side of the bed, two drawers, two doors, a bookcase which was sat precisely atop the midway point of the far back wall. His belongings were already mounted at the foot of his bed, his dark green _chemises_ and deep grey Oxford bags not much contrast against the underwater shades of the room. There were, he noted, no windows in the room as if the depressing Slytherin vibe hadn't already been enough.

Then here was a ruffle of heavy feathers and a pierce of ochre eyes at which Harry gave a sudden, sharp gasp. His owl. His eagle owl. His brown eagle owl handsomely speckled with cream. His owl who was not Hedwig.

He felt his lip begin to quiver, felt this might be one step too far for him—it was, after all, Hedwig whom had grown with him, suffered with him, loved him during his wizarding years. Hedwig whom had been gifted to him by his old, wonderful friend Hagrid. Hedwig whom was now replaced by this gorgeous, stately and hopelessly _Slytherin Harry_ bird; and Hagrid by murderous psychopaths daring to call themselves family members like some tacked-on addition to his life. Into the room he moved, slumping against the edge of the bed, and wrenched out his wand.

He stared at it angrily, cursing the red streak that ran through it. Anger and flame were suddenly beset in his belly like a button somebody could press to alter his moods.

Oh, yes, even far away from Hogwarts and the comforts of the Gryffindor common room something had to taunt him about his old life. _Something_ had to remind him that he did not belong here no matter how much he was trying. He made a struggled noise and threw it across the room where it skittered across the floor and came to a solemn halt at the foot of the owl's stand. Said owl gave a screech and look at its master disapprovingly.

He felt the thick silence between his parents, automatically _knew_ they were looking at one another. Hadn't even been around them for more than five minutes and he already knew their reactions; but he was surprised to feel the heavy dip of his father next to him and his mother's slender form sidle next to one of the posts of the regal bed. It was, if nothing, a small and personal comfort to simply know they were _there_. He would have to get used to it.

"We know it's scary—" began his mother carefully, interrupted by James as if he was finishing her sentence, "—but you've done ever so well so far. And not just at school, either. You've excelled at your physical tests, and Severus tells us you're doing very well in Occlumency lessons—" Oh, so he was still taking those, was he? Fat lot of good they'd done him against Snape's oily nose. "—You've really nothing to worry about."

Except he _had_, except this was all terribly, horribly daunting and now more than ever there was no way out. For whatever he had purportedly trained, he was completely unequipped. He knew nothing about anything, his Occlumency skills were down the gutter, and he was in a den of snakes. With Voldemort as the lord and master of his parents. And Dumbledore hadn't yet any idea on what to do.

He sighed from exhaustion. He really just wanted to sleep. Skip dinner, he didn't care. Show up at nine o'clock and do the darn task, get whatever snake tattoo he'd seen on the others, return to Hogwarts a dirty Death Eater. He just wanted answers. He just wanted it _over_ with.

There was a poignant moment of quietness between the three of them (the four, counting the bird). Harry stared at his wand, unblinking, wondering why on _Earth_ this had to happen in his alternate life. Why couldn't he have landed in a world where he was a Hufflepuff and none of this would happen to him. For _once_ he wanted a break.

"You know," said Lily calmly, "you were the talk of the town when we brought you home with your wand. Everybody was shocked that you got a Split." Split? "But there it was, ninth wand you tried. First eight were either utterly useless or blew poor Ollivander's socks to smithereens." She turned her moonish eyes to Harry. "Then this one just came right into your hand, and you turned to me and said—"

"—_it feels like home._"

Harry surprised himself when those words came from his lips. He almost looked at James to see if it had been him, but sure enough his own throat had produced the sounds. And it felt like some deep-seated knowledge buried like a seed in his soul, a red string connecting him and Slytherin Harry together. He knew he was right; Lily smiled in confirmation.

"Your grandmother was expecting acacia or ebony or something thereabouts. It was quite a shock when you came home with a Split. It's true what they say about chestnut owners, though—too fond of material things. She almost fainted when she saw the colour of it." Her eyes wrinkled merrily. "She eventually came around when she got a closer look at it. Pine wood, dragon heartstring, eleven inches, red Split. A fine wand, she decided. Powerful, loyal, _courageous._ I think even she got used to it, the idea you might be in Gryffindor—"

Harry's heart thudded nervously. _Might be in Gryffindor?_ That was what the red streak in his wand symbolised? That he had a chance to be in Gryffindor? That underneath his Slytherin home values there existed a sense of determination and valour? That made him both happy and angry: happy because somewhere deep within Slytherin Harry resembled Gryffindor Harry; angry because all the wonderful friends and people he knew because of Gryffindor house were erased from his life. He had been so close.

"—but, you know, she was over the moon when we got your letter. Lucius and Narcissa were ever so pleased, too."

It sparked a question. He pulled at the fabric of his pants and spoke tenatively.

"What if... I had been put into Gryffindor?"

"Things would be the same. You'd still be Harry." This was James; Harry smiled to himself. "But it goes to show, son. You've always been brave. Reckless, yes, but nothing I wouldn't do. You've got the sheer gall to do this. We wouldn't be here if you didn't."

So this thing with Voldemort, this task, was an elected choice?

"But no more of this. You're tired." Lily went over and picked his wand up from the owl's base to pass it back to him. "You should have a nap. Think of something to wear." Over the top of Harry's head, her and James's eyes met. "Spend a bit of time with Draco while you can."

_While he could?_ Was something going to happen—were they going to be separated? Draco had made it sound as if they were coming back together in January. He didn't understand... but they did. They caught his concerned, surprised expression. Deer caught in the sudden headlights. James got to his feet and moved to the doorway with Lily; their looks were those of sorriness.

"We've got all the time in the world together, son. But Draco—you understand. Say your goodbyes."

Goodbyes? What?

"I don't—"

"—Harry, really, it's fine. It's best if you do it while you still have the chance."

"But—"

"—I mean, it wouldn't be safe afterwards. For neither of you. We know you're well-prepared, but we don't want to take any chances." Chances? Of what? "I mean, it'll be hard enough on your end of things, but him... Poor boy." His mother pressed a faint hand to her heart as if saying a prayer. Harry turned his head, not daring to really say anything odd or strange. Not now, not now. "Lucius and Narcissa will keep an eye on him. Perhaps it's best if you keep your distance from them, too. Your father will have a hard enough time of it tonight. There's no knowing what you'll do, Harry." He really did not understand—and it was written all over his face. Fear. Confusion. Panic. A myriad of feelings scribed into his features. He began to tremble, really, _very_ regretting this now. "They're feral creatures after all, you know—"

The next word came like a sucker punch to the gut. He could not compute its implications, but he knew it made him feel sick. Queasy. Unreal. Time seemed to expand, curling around him and sweeping him away to a place where emotions were sickeningly slow, sickeningly precise.

"—_werewolves._"

The word reverberated endlessly. Slowly. Excruciatingly. This was why they had put him in the basement, as far away from Draco as possible. This was why they were assembled at a point in the country far away from any other people. This was why there was a strict timetable, meticulous processes. All of it was because of this, because of that _one single word_.

Werewolf.

_Fucking werewolf._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's notes: <em>**_I claim no ownership over the copyrighted _Harry Potter_ materials from which my fanfiction is derived. All rights and reserves go to J.K. Rowling, author of the novels, and Warner Bros. which owns the film rights of the films upon which this work is partially based. I own my own creativity and personal interpretation of the works, characters, events, canon and concepts but nothing more. Unfortunately I wish the characters were mine, but they aren't!_

_As another important note, I have to tell you I have a vague idea of where this story is going. It'll be based on the original material, of course, but so is most fanfiction. Think of this as canonical AU if you will; i.e. what could've happened. At any rate, **please review** so I know that you're happy with this and wish it to continue._


	6. VI: With Courage I Prepared

_**Please view with the following options for an optimal reading experience: the smallest font size; Sans-serif font; 3/4 story width; no story line spacing; and with the light brightness/contrast option. Thank you.**_

—x—

It was a dead-end situation if Harry had ever known one, and the difference was that there was little he could do without serious repercussions for his parents, even if they were parents vastly different from his own canon. He looked down between his feet and stared for some time at the floor, wondering if it would open up and swallow him into peaceful oblivion any time soon.

The feeling of helplessness was entirely new to him—because in the past though he had struggled plenty a time there'd always been Ron and Hermione there and plenty other Gryffindor friends to see him succeed where he thought he might not. There was a distinct lack of that as Slytherin Harry; his supposed confidant, Draco, was in the same boat and happy about it in some deep part of him behind that mask of terror. He'd been happy about it for the longest time, really.

What he'd give for Sirius's advice now. For a bit of untidy, hurried scrawl telling him to keep his nose clean.

He lay back with a feeling of all-consuming dread and considered his options as his eyes bore into whatever bland item of money his line of sight happened to find. He could sneak out, he supposed—or at least try to. If his father was a werewolf and tonight was the full moon... Well, Harry knew that werewolf senses were at their sharpest on nights like this; he'd be caught making too much noise clambering out the window. There'd be a lot of explaining to do to a beast like Greyback.

There was a sudden loud banging on his door. Harry almost shot a mile into the air as his heart started. He gripped his wand to his chest instinctively, then realised there wasn't really anybody in the house who would _willingly_ hurt him, so then tucked it away and went to open the door tentatively.

He could almost smell the pheromones as Greyback's massive, garish face came into view on the other side of the door. _Speak of the devil. _Harry stood there stupidly for a split second, wondering what on Earth Greyback was doing at his bedroom, and then caught himself and told him to come in. Slytherin Harry was probably stupid enough to do that.

"Your heart," came the werewolf's Cockney boom, "you oughtta calm down. You'll be attractin' other creatures of the deep." Harry didn't know what he meant by that so offered a confident smile and nodded like an imbecile. Greyback went on. "I come to visit you to see you were all right. I weren't expecting your father to give you the most practical advice so I takes it upon mysel' to 'ave a chat."

"Yeah," Harry said flippantly, sinking back onto the edge of the bed, really thinking that Greyback was the last person he'd take advice from, "avoided the subject, really. I was sort of hoping you'd come by and, er... give a bit of spiritual advice or whatever you lot – I mean, er, your kind – call it." He cursed himself internally. Back in his world Greyback was known for his fierce demeanour, and he didn't expect it to be any different in this reality.

"Spiritual?" Greyback barked a laugh. "We're not a pack o' tree fairies, lad. We're beasts is what we is. True predators, stalkers of the dark nights. Our nature is our blood, an' the killin' is the art form. Do you get where I'm coming from?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, I suppose I do when you put it like that." _Too doubtful._ "I mean, _yeah,_ I never thought of it that way before. Well, I have, but it's just—"

"—the nerves, I know. Wouldn't really know 'ow that goes, of course, being the way I am but I can sympathise—" _That's highly fucking unlikely,_ Harry thought "—I mean, there's the rush, the heart beatin', the whimpers of the little blighters when they feel that powerful wolf's venom _penetratin'_ their blood."

The way Greyback talked about it was like it was erotica—the hunt, the blood, the infamous child hunting. Spittle sat on his lips, his eyes glazed, tongue wagging and hungry—and in between his legs what was a guilty bulge. Harry averted his eyes quickly and brought up something else that didn't involve this particular werewolf's sick, sexual excitement.

"Does it hurt?" he asked. It was more childish than he intended, but vital. Nothing could be more painful than getting stabbed by the fang of a basilisk but he hadn't really experienced werewolf life... maybe Slytherin Harry was prepared for it, so maybe it might not be as painful. Pre-prepared placebos and whatnot.

"Like fucking _Hell_." The werewolf's mouth opened into a grimy, gritty smile that would make anybody sick to the stomach. There went his meagre hopes. "Oh, yes, it hurts but it's a rewarding pain. Imagine a woman – a _slag_ – giving birth, and holding that baby for the first time. Imagine that agony and that rush of love afterwards. That's what being a werewolf's like, only more. No baby could add up to the feelin' of the beast, Harry, none."

Well, that was comforting. Not only was Greyback a psychopath, he was also a misogynist: and also apparently a close family friend, co-worker and advice-giver. Slytherin Harry really _was_ in the thick of it; his Gryffindor self almost pitied him...

"Right, well, I best be off, yer father'll be thinkin' I've gone down off to the villages for a pre-dinner _snack—" _code word: child "—and he'll be whinin' at me. No, Harry, don't look so petrified. It's not so bad after the first time, and it's not like it's permanent. You just gots to be asking for rare meat, is all—and if they don't do it, there's the Forbidden Forest full o' critters for you to get your _teef_ into."

With that Greyback retreated from the room, leaving Harry to his own violent turmoil of thoughts. He first noticed that he felt sick to his stomach now his fears were reaffirmed and so emptied his Hogwarts breakfast into the toilet bowl at the thought of what would soon be happening.

It was all a fucking shambles, in complete honesty. Giving up a Voldemort-chased life with dead parents and godfather for this experience? Harry was beginning to think he hadn't exactly gotten what he'd bargained for. And plus, did all time-turning explorations have this disastrous an outcome? He'd have to ask Hermione... except that, _oh yes,_ she was also now on 'the other side' and he was, especially after this Christmas, forbidden from becoming friends with her.

He flopped down onto his bed after washing his mouth and face and buried his head into his arms. He was frustrated, hurt, lost, confused: all of this for Sirius? All of this crazy, nonsensical bullshit for Sirius? Was it morally bankrupt of him to want to trade Sirius's life in for this tragedy? Or was it the Slytherin in him bucking out of the more courageous, painful option to save its own scaly hide?

It was time to visit Draco.

—x—

"Are you sure, darling? We can have Dobby bring up some sandwiches if you'd like. We've got pickled onions somewhere, too. I know they're your favourite."

Narcissa's voice was silky in a manner that it was tantalising but Harry's stomach wasn't strong enough for even a small onion soaked in vinegar. He shook his head for the third time.

"It's all right, Cissy. Honestly."

"Well, all right." She gave him and Draco, who was perched next to him on the bed with his legs drawn to his chest, a concerned look before turning to leave the room. She pressed a dainty hand to her husband's shoulder as she passed him in the doorway; there was a split second of silence, and then Lucius gave a random nod and fixated both his eyes on the pair of them. Being alone with this ethereally beautiful man did nothing to ease Harry's shaky nerves.

"As I'm to understand it, Greyback talked to you." _How does he know that?_ "I offer my condolences." He flashed a row of pristine, white teeth. "Greyback has the manners of a pig at slaughter, but listen to him, Harry. In times when you feel alone and outcast, his advice will be valuable."

Odd enough to be getting advice from the eternally stoical Lucius Malfoy, but for the eternally stoical Lucius Malfoy to endorse the words of the savage Greyback was unheard of—back in his own world, anyway. Harry had been under the impression that anything non-humanoid and non-magical didn't possess the qualifications to be treated as a living person, never mind respected or revered in any fashion. He'd sworn he'd heard Draco yapping on back during their stint in the second year under the influence of Polyjuice Potion that his father had been so angry about Harry and Ron not getting expelled for flying the Ford Anglia that he'd kicked one of the residential mutts so hard up the backside it had had to consume a mouthful of Skelegro.

"Greyback isn't the first person I'd turn to in a time of need," he murmured to himself under his breath; Lucius gave a polite laugh – _really, how did he... – _and moved to the doorway to leave the boys alone for one last afternoon together, or something like that. "Well," said his ever-receding voice, "I'll send up the elf with some drinks if you don't help yourselves."

Draco gave a deep sigh and moved to close the ornate door of his bedroom. Slytherin Harry had probably slept in here at some point during his life but it was hard not to gawk at the sheer size. A fireplace bigger than the Dursley's own living room, his own personal corridor to his own personal set of rooms: a library, a bathroom, and a small kitchenette of sorts where he could fix himself a drink if he needed, as well as a padded room for duelling practise and another room for his impressive collection of (mostly designer) clothes. He didn't know where to look that didn't make it starkly obvious he was really a total newcomer to the vision of inherited wealth.

Draco's back, apparently; the other boy bypassed him completely to move off to the kitchen. He returned with some water for the both of them and sat in a grand armchair in the corner of the room, fiddling with his wand absent-mindedly. It was Harry's voice that brought him from his reverie.

"Hmm?"

"I said are you nervous?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, 'course. But we've been preparing for this for so long, Harry. Feels sort of cowardly to just go back on all those promises we made. In _front_ of... well, the Dark Lord."

"Yeah... I'm nervous, too. Didn't really think about it properly until now—" that wasn't exactly a lie "—'till Greyback came in, gave the talk. You know what he's like."

"'Least you've got someone else to talk to. And it'll only be once a month on your end of things. It'll just be constant for me. I won't even be able to talk to you like this without wanting to rip your face off. Or anyone else's apart from Mum and Dad's and they do my fucking head in most of the time." His face hardened into a scowl and he turned to prodding his glass until the water inside turned blue. _"Draco, do this, Draco, do that. Don't you dare make friends with the Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs, Draco. Ravenclaws are second-class Slytherins, Draco. Draco, why didn't you get an O on your test? Draco, you know how important it is to eat and exercise well before Christmas-time."_

Harry hadn't considered that aspect. He knew from his own world that Lucius Malfoy had been anything but reasonable when it came to social perfection sp the strains on his 'Hogwarts representative' Draco must have been phenomenal. And what did Draco mean, 'constant for me'? Wasn't he undergoing the same transformative experience? Harry decided to play it safe.

"Surely it won't be that bad—there'll be others like us, too. I mean, there's Greyback and then there was Lupin from third year. I mean, I know it's Hogwarts and everything but we're allowed to go to Hogsmeade at weekends and then there's the Easter holidays... There's no reason why we can't just high-tail it out of school for a bit to cool off."

Draco gave him an ugly look and levitated his glass of water over to the bedside table with so much concentration he looked to snap his wand in half.

"That's easy for you to say," he snapped. "The school's seen werewolves before. At least Lupin was a werewolf all the way through. They knew how to handle him from a young age. Mum and Dad were just... normal back then. They don't know how to deal with..." He gave a sigh just as he was about to say the word, at which point the glass tumbled from the bedside table having been placed a tad too far on the edge, and Draco hissed in frustration. It was after a snap of the fingers that Dobby appeared to clean the mess up, giving no heed to Harry.

Of course, he didn't know Harry as the kind-hearted equalist who'd befriended him in his second year. Harry was probably simply another one of his tormentors; and there was nothing Harry could do about that. He could only follow Draco down the personal corridor to the duelling room, which very much took after a squash court. He plucked his wand from his breast, which he'd replaced after his mother had passed it back to him down in his own bedroom, felt its weird echo of familiarity in his mind, and pointed it towards Draco much like it was a sabre.

Slytherin Harry was probably that much of a toff, anyway: a keen fencer who more than likely circle-jerked to Olympic events on television (if indeed his family even possessed such a contraption). Draco took a similar stance, narrowed his steely eyes, and lashed out with a silent spell.

"_Protego!"_ Harry couldn't stop the word coming from his mouth but it did its job well. He assumed by now in their current position in the sixth year that wordless incantations were all the rage in the curriculum. He sucked in a breath as the red streak bubbled and frothed against his pearlescent defence, and felt his arm ache uncompromisingly when Draco shot a jinx at his foot. He flung the shield low enough just in time for the spell to ping away and smash into one of the blank walls; Draco laughed suddenly. _"What?"_

"Nothing," came the hoot, "I was just remembering... First year when we had that duel outside Transfiguration. You hit Stephen Mruzik in the head with a Knockback Jinx. McGonagall went _mental!"_

That sounded like something _Gryffindor_ Harry would accidentally do. How many times had he sent Ron scissor-kicking across the room in their more amateur years?

"Haugen lost her nut," continued Draco, "tried poisoning you in Potions, I think. And to think—" he nodded towards the Split in Harry's wand "—you were that close to being sorted in with a bunch of nutters."

"Don't." It was a mistake; Harry clasped his hand over his mouth as Draco gave him a look that was both perplexed and angered. He really _did_ hate Gryffindors—but his features softened when Harry corrected himself. "I mean, don't remind me... Grandmother near enough disowned me at first... First it's Dad marrying Mum, then it's Mum dragging Dad off to meet Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia – pair of arseholes if I ever knew any—" that wasn't a lie _at all_ "—and don't even get me started on Dudley. Then Dad gets the infection... Grandmother would've popped off if I ended up in Gryffindor. Only sending me presents this year because I'd signed up."

"But I thought she didn't like werewolves."

"Oh, she doesn't. She whistles for my dad whenever she wants him for something—but my _pledge_ or whatever more than made up for the Gryffindor issue. I think she overlooks the werewolf thing even with Dad for the most part. She's always going on about his honourable oath and stuff—" here he was grasping at straws, but whether it was a long-shot he did not know "—even if it is for eternity."

The last word made the laughing, joking Draco recede back into his shell, and instantly Harry regretted it. Why, he wasn't sure, but it did. Probably a side-effect of whatever fusing was going on with his Gryffindor self to his Slytherin silhouette. Draco sighed again and went back to the bedroom, Harry on his tail, and both of them flopped on the bed.

"I'm sorry," came Harry's half-mumbled apology. He sucked in his cheek. "I didn't think."

"No, it's all right. I've got to face up to it at some point. No point wallowing around in misery. I made this choice like you did. I should be a bit more enthusiastic. I've seen loads of cool stuff Mum and Dad can do. They say it's like listening to somebody's lungs half the time. You can _hear_ the air go in and out of people. And then they can smell stuff we can't, like perfume from ages away, and cigarettes and just general things we don't pick up on. Then there's the speed and the gymnastics and whatnot... It's just weird. I remember seeing Mum with a shattered leg when I was young, and now that doesn't even cross her mind. She can... scale the walls without worrying about falling off."

That made Harry think. In all his years of Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, even last year when he taught Dumbledore's Army, he'd never come across people who could climb walls and move lightning-fast and perform amazing acrobatics. From the way Draco spoke of his parents Harry knew the Malfoy couple was not human—but they lacked the burly build of Greyback and his father, and Lucius was far too elegant to ever attain James's level of natural... beastliness. Were they another form of werewolf? Were-mice? Were-spiders? Did things like that even exist? In his Hogwarts textbooks there had never been any mention...

"Well, at least you'll be able to do that stuff as well. _Me?_ I'm doomed to turn into a dog every thirty days. Probably snooping off to piss on Hagrid's cabbages or gnawing on rotting centaur legs or something."

Draco snorted. "Don't let Greyback hear you say that. He'll be scratching at you before your dad does."

"Yeah..." It wasn't something he was exactly willing to think about with happy or excited abandon. "So, who's going to do you? Your mum or your dad?"

"Dad." The reply was instant like it was a decision firmly drawn in the mud. "Like I was telling you, I wasn't sure who it was going to be but we talked about it a lot. Couldn't eat my dinner because of it, really. Mum turned him, so... they figured it works out better if Dad does it so there's a firm hierarchy in place. Mum'll still have control over me through Dad even if it's weaker. It's just easier for... well, You-Know-Who. Mum doesn't have to wrestle with us both competing against one another; she'll still have power over him and he'll have power over me. And the Dark Lord will have power over all of us. That's the way it's been planned."

So it was a power scheme; it was a method calculated in Voldemort's favour to give him some advantage over _the other side_. Well, Dumbledore had mentioned that during the First Wizarding War Voldemort had recruited all manner of monster for his cause; this time he'd be grasping at straws to the point of infiltrating Hogwarts, it seemed. He would stop at nothing. It was a lot to take in: it also meant that his werewolf deal was a contract drawn from nails and blood that he, Slytherin Harry, had willingly signed knowing that he was a weapon and informant.

A killer.

It made him seethe. _He was going to kill._ He had to tell Dumbledore but there was no way out of the situation. He had to become a werewolf first, and then—well, Dumbledore could create the concoction stewed for Lupin in the third year. His mind whirred as the basics of the blueprint came together: He'd slip off into the woods on the night of every full moon so as not to arouse Snape's suspicion, and then he'd take his potion and... well, wait it out. He could stay around the back of Hagrid's hut so he wouldn't alert Fang to his presence. No doubt he was not exactly in Hagrid's best books, either.

"That makes sense," came the feeble reply, passing off as thoughtful, "but... won't it be obvious? I mean, your mum and dad aren't exactly inconspicuous. If I were anybody but myself—" _ha, ha..._ "—I'd notice their differences. You know, the glowing skin, vinegar preservation and all that."

Malfoy shot him a funny look. "You're a strange one," he said, before turning his eyes back to the details of his eloquent four-poster. "It'll be obvious, yeah. But some of them know. Snape, you know? And one or two of the Slytherins... They'll help propel the rumour that I cut my hand open on a Christmas present and Dad went nuts. The Ministry's not exactly given Dad the sack because of his condition. He's a very highly valued employee. They'll extend the gratitude to Hogwarts—and the best part is that Dumbledore will be forced to comply, the fool." Harry raged quietly as Malfoy sneered the word. "He'll be helping with my upkeep, playing right into Snape's hands. I could be picking off the students one by one and he would have to put up with it, protect me from 'the Dark Lord's invisible influence on non-humans'. He's got too much morality about killing children."

Harry lay in stunned silence. Malfoy had thought this out very thoroughly, and he knew his Slytherin self had, too. If he thought he was a git from the way others treated him he knew it was nothing akin to the real portrait underneath his unblemished, seemingly perfect skin and dazzling smile. He was _evil_ to the core. It said masses about his parents and the company they kept.

"Morality, eh?" Malfoy had none. In spite of his little tiff, his quiet mourning for the nature of events the past few days when he really thought about it, he'd bounced right back to square one—not giving a shit about anything else other than himself. Harry wanted to Crucio some common human decency into him right then. "Morality's just... holding us back." He sat up abruptly, and forced himself to wheel out his next words: "Well, morality can piss off. I've a werewolf to become." The grin he faked nauseated him. "And you a lightbulb."

Malfoy threw a pillow at him.

"Yes, dog."

—x—

According to Bellatrix's timetable, which Harry had turned over very vigorously in his mind, there was still an hour and a half to go before the six o'clock dinner. It would probably be appropriate to change out of his Slytherin robes and don something quasi-formal for the last feast; something to show off the last contours of his human shoulders before they became loaded with the bulk of muscle and his face took on an entirely different definition of 'facial hair'. A chance to present himself to this small, wicked world inside the manor as a boy who was about to become, metaphorically, a man.

He felt more Gryffindor than ever, and yet he was more afraid than he had ever been. Didn't they say a man could only be brave when he was scared? A useful mantra to reassure himself, but no doubt it would fail come time for the task. Come time for Voldemort's eight o'clock arrival, actually.

He drifted around the house after more inane chatter with Malfoy, whose confidence had managed to buckle right at the tail end of their time together. His mother had said they should cherish their last moments together but none of the words exchanged had brought any sort of sense of catharsis. It only made him want to get away from Malfoy _more_. If their divide – werewolf and whatever Malfoy's parents were – drove a wedge between them, then so be it. He needed to be as far away from the crazed community of evil as he could. Knowing Voldemort would be playing puppet master to his impulses was sickening enough.

Down by the portrait gallery the Malfoys apparently boasted, Harry found his parents chatting amicably with Greyback and the chubby red-haired woman who, though she stood solemnly and quietly, threw in a comment here and there which his parents felt were very funny. Both his father and Greyback drew in a slow breath through the nose and turned to greet Harry; James patted Lily on the shoulder and she turned around with wide eyes.

"Harry..." the inflection of surprise "...aren't you spending time with Draco?"

Harry felt the tubby redhead's eyes on him like burning fire; he gave her a look of indifference and shrugged. "We're not attached at the hip. I have to put up with him enough at school as it is," he drawled, and his father and Greyback guffawed, "and I thought—well, you know. This is the last time you'll see me like this. Like a memoir or something."

Lily's eyes began to water immediately; she pulled Harry to her breast and sobbed quietly into his hair, overwrought by the honesty of her son's sweetness. James rubbed her shoulder lovingly, and Greyback and the redhead stood back awkwardly at the exchange. "Don't say it like that," she hiccuped, "you make it sound as if you're going off to die."

"Don't be so silly," came the redhead's deep voice, "he's off to become a man. James and Fenrir'll have his back before anybody else can get to him. Heads will roll."

"Yeah—" that was Greyback "—heads _will_ fuckin' roll if one of my pack is targeted. We're a family, Lily. Wolves never move alone."

Lily exhaled into Harry's hair and retreated from her hug to dab her eyes on a handkerchief she kept in her pocket. "Well, yes," she sniffled, pressing away marks where her mascara had run, "I know—but he'll be ever so alone at Hogwarts." She witnessed James and Fenrir exchange a knowing, grinning glance. "Oh, put off it. I don't want him attacking anybody at school! It'll be confusing enough for him as is with the impulses and the newness of it all. I don't want him suffering through the responsibility of offspring just yet." Her eyes became glossy with tears once more. "I've tried so hard to bargain with the Dark Lord already but he's adamant he won't wait until Easter before Harry starts..."

Starts killing people. Eating and consuming human flesh. Turning his friends into monsters. His lip quivered as his mother moved closer to her anguish; he put a strong hand on her arm and gave her a firm look of the eyes. Green met lovely green, and his heart stuttered: it was a simple look but it grounded him. He had _come_ from his snippet of softness that was his mother. Though she had Death Eater allegiances, there was still familiarity somewhere. He could source valour from that alone.

"It'll be fine, Mum. I wanted this. I'm _loyal._ I'm doing it for you and—" was it safe to make the admission here before Greyback and the other woman? He had to make sure "—Dad and the Dark Lord. Dad and Fenrir will take good care of me, and I'll be back to normal in no time. Just like you want."

"Yes..." she sniffed. "I'm sorry. It just terrifies me. So many things could go _wrong_... What if—what if your father can't—" Her eyes swivelled to his father, but it was Greyback who interrupted her worries.

"It's carefully mapped out, Lily. James is a weaker wolf; he can't keep away the transformation as long as I can—" well, Greyback's prowess as a werewolf extraordinaire was clear by the sheer amount of body hair that streaked his skin "—so I'll be there to watch him turn 'Arry, and then I'll watch 'Arry turn, give 'im a bit of encouragement and the like, and when they're done we'll be free to roam as a pack." His cracked teeth glinted horribly in the low light as a smile tugged at his lips. "And no pansy Malfoy creature will be able to stop us."

"Not so fast," cut in the redhead sharply. Her lips were pursed as she scrutinised him none too fondly for his comment. Harry thought she was about to jump to the Malfoys' defence but he was mistaken. "The Dark Lord will be making his inspections, and it will be your duty to keep a tab on Harry."

"Ah, yes." Harry watched him carefully—but there was no sign of insubordination towards her. He was, for all intents and purposes, leashed by her words. Was Voldemort the only one to whom Greyback submitted? It was a terrifying thought. "You're right, Carrow. It will be a cause for celebration, and 'Arry will celebrate well with his new family." He turned his grin towards Harry questioningly, and he had no choice but to oblige him with an eager nod.

Carrow, however, fixed him a furrowed glance with pursed lips. She crossed her chubby arms over the black padding of her plain robes, and played with the end of her wand which was woven between each of her sausage-like fingers. "You're awfully quiet, Harry." Harry met her questioning eyes with careful abandon, understanding that among this small group of individuals, Carrow was the one he had to look out for—doubly so because he purportedly knew her in his family's circle of friends and couldn't betray his lack of intel; secondly because he simply _didn't_ know her mannerisms or what not to do around her. She seemed tightly-strung enough.

He gave a shrug of the shoulders, passing off nonchalance as if it was casual stance. He figured his Slytherin self carried the _aire du cool,_ and in Slytherin language that meant impassiveness yet sharp wit—a dagger tongue lazing inside the mouth. His tone came out as a drawl as if the werewolf matter were nothing to be worried about at all. "It's a scary thing," he confessed, sweeping a hand through his perfect hair, "I'm only human."

"But you've been ever so excited, Harry." What was up with her? Why the questions, the accusing tone? She couldn't have _known..._ "Aren't thinking of backing out, are you?"

"And even if I was," came the snappish Gryffindor tone, "what would you do about it?" He felt his mother tense; his father was struggling not to smile—Greyback's expression was indeterminable. "I took the oath and swore myself to the Dark Lord. I'm bound and I couldn't get out of it even if I liked—or do you think that an oath means nothing? I took the oath in fear knowing that I'd have to become stronger, and that's what I've done. And, yes, I know very well that backing out will mean the Dark Lord will punish me. But you know what they say, a man can only be brave when he is afraid."

Carrow narrowed her eyes, her glare venomous as if she couldn't believe he had the audacity to tell her the truth when she was scrutinising his every move. She should have known, of course; lions snapped when they were cornered, attacked and went into that heated self-preservation mode. Harry was no different.

"You should have been a Gryffindor, Potter," she said thinly, "much too brash for your own good."

"The Sorting Hat thought I would have made a good Gryffindor, too," he remarked acidly. "It's not an insult."

She pressed her lips together as if to bite back, but Greyback held an arm across her chest to tell her to stop. Harry's eyes were deadlocked on her pudgy face, and some insanely irrational part of him wanting to let rip a snarl and spit in her face. He'd never felt _that_ strongly about an individual before—and it wasn't because she was a Death Eater. His mother's hand at the small of his back calmed him and she turned him away from Carrow into a concerned smile.

"Come, sweetheart," she mumbled, "now's not the time for anger, is it? You've dinner to dress for, and I hear the house elves have prepared your favourite—" _lasagne?_ "—lasagne." His Slytherin self had good taste. "You wouldn't want to miss it, would you? It's ever such a special occasion."

"No, Mother," he said. With dinner on his mind, Carrow was almost entirely forgotten and he liked it that way. Both his father and Greyback slapped strong hands down onto his shoulders and he had to try his hardest not to buckle; James curled him under his arm and turned with him away from the gallery. "Back to your room," he said, "and wear something nice for your mother. Do you still have those old robes from Tattings?"

"Er—I think so."

—x—

Back in his windowless bedroom, Harry was pacing. His drawers – filled with the clothes he didn't remember bringing – were topsy turvy, half-hanging from the polished wood with their contents spilling onto the floor like the piece of furniture had drunk too much and spewed their contents out. He'd thought about having a shower but there wasn't enough time, and plus, Bellatrix's timetable allowed for an hour of preening before...

He couldn't process the thought without feeling dizzy and wanting to throw up. The emerald velvet of his robes pooled around him as he sat on the edge of the bed, focusing on the monstrous owl that he owned; there was a silver brooch pinned to his breast, a snake with _actual_ emeralds for glittering eyes, and beneath the robes he wore a simple white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tucked into a fancy pair of high-rising, grey Oxford bags. His feet were kitted with shiny, black, pointed affairs, and at his wrists were serpent cuff-links with the same green eyes as his pin. For all intents and purposes he was immaculately dressed having figured that it really was the last time to show himself off to the world as a proud, brave, and _human_ Harry.

He also hoped it wasn't the last time he showed himself off to the world as a Gryffindor Harry.

The feeling of wanting to vomit rushed up his throat again as he fingered his wand. It took a clasped mouth to stop himself, and he knew he couldn't manage dinner like this. Suspecting that Draco wouldn't be eating much, either, he supposed that the negligence of the rumoured lasagne would not be a big issue. Even though they were Death Eaters they also had human impulses—most of them, anyway. They'd all been children once, afraid of at least _something_.

Afraid of Voldemort.

"Oh, bloody hell," he gasped as he made a break for the bathroom to throw up into the toilet. The owl eyed him much like a vole as if it knew something wasn't quite right. Good thing owls couldn't talk, then.

He just finished brushing his teeth when there was a knock at the door. The noise was hollow and slow like time was ballooning out all around him, and he was getting sucked into its black core. He tucked his wand away into the little pocket inside his robes, fiddled with his brooch shakily, and then opened the door. Standing there was his mother in a gorgeous evening gown in burgundy, cut down to the knee. She covered her bare shoulders with a golden shawl; Harry noted that she'd curled her hair out into tight ringlets of natural red, and when he took a look at her on the whole he understood that his mother was a Gryffindor.

That came as a surprise. He'd expected her to be a Slytherin queen.

"You look beautiful," he said. He could shower her with a multitude of other compliments but that one summed up his thoughts pretty well. Maybe having never known his mother contributed to his misinterpretations of her – well, the one that used to exist in his world – but he had never thought she would be so gentle. Not fragile, exactly, but soft and wise. Her fiery, lion-proud outfit therefore took a more profound effect. She smiled warmly and returned the words as they walked to the dining room.

It was as Harry imagined it: long, sweeping, completely decadent with newly-erected diamond set-ups adorning the corners of the rooms, the windowpanes, the table in bowls laid out in intervals of every two chairs. Why someone would keep a stock of perfectly-cut diamonds as table decorations to pour into glass goldfish bowls like beads wasn't in Harry's understanding but they did look rather nice as they glittered and shone in the army of candle lights hoisted across the sleek walls. With a fire roaring at the end of the room, the radiators bewitched to a healthy temperature and the sweeping curtains drawn, the place actually looked quite _homely_.

All that was needed were Christmas decorations streaming the ceilings, but Harry assumed the Malfoys thought they were above such tacky riff-raff. Well, as it happened he quite _liked_ the Weasleys' jolly festive efforts. He sucked in his cheek as he peered around at the place, hoping his seat – one of the few remaining – was near the fireplace. Since it was the winter season, the sun set early and the coldness descended even earlier; or perhaps it was his nerves making his skin prickle like that.

Others were already there, stood behind their high-backed chairs. It was the same group of Death Eaters from before but they'd slipped from their evil-doing robes into material of sophisticated wealth. Even _Carrow_ looked decent, though her pinched mouth returned when she saw Harry at the threshold with his mother. Next to her was the man who'd been wearing the same robes earlier – a family member, perhaps? – in a set of fancy robes, and next to _him_ was Greyback decked out (Harry's eyes popped) in a slate grey suit that stretched over his bulging shoulders and arms with a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He'd combed his hair into a low ponytail, but the rest of him was still undeniably terrifying with his thick fur, cracked teeth, and inhuman eyes. He gave Harry a playful whistle as Lily lead them both over.

"Good boy," came the thick Cockney, "representing your mother and father well." His eyes moved to Lily's face... and despite Harry's well-placed assumptions of misogyny, Greyback didn't peer at her bust or her slender legs. He cocked a brow to himself, thinking, _Well, would you look at that._ "And you look beautiful, Lily," he said politely. He was attempting to erase some of the eastern London hardness from his tone. "Godric Gryffindor would be proud..." his mouth widened into a grin as he looked to the door through which they'd come through "...which is more than I can say for that prat."

James sauntered up to them, giving Greyback a firm pat on the shoulder. Harry inhaled sharply when his father turned around to face his family: his eyes were high, cold blue. It must have meant the moon was in the sky – Harry hadn't checked – and the transformation was close. He noticed the room, almost full, had quietened its chatter at his father's arrival; James held his arms out wide, the red folds of his silken robes flapping as he did so.

"Not yet, folks," he said merrily, "no need to be so tense. As long as there's raw steak on the menu, I won't be eating any of you for the time being." There was a series of chuckles. James turned to peer at his son. "Looking handsome, son. Nice brooch." He leaned in closer. "Could've left it out, though. Carrow dislikes ambiguity." Greyback laughed at his side.

Pissing off Carrow wasn't exactly on his list of priorities right now, but it was nice to know there was a sense of humour somewhere up the line. His father had turned to his mother and was giving her an endless stream of compliments, which frankly embarrassed Harry so he took a seat two away from Greyback – to allow for his parents – and watched Bellatrix come in wearing a plethora of dark skirts as he stood.

The Malfoys were the only ones yet absent, Draco probably pacing in his room Harry thought. In their absence he noticed that despite James's reassurance, a greasy Pettigrew was twitching uncomfortably in the corner. That, Harry couldn't care about: with any luck the little scum-bag would have a fit and die. He was still very much bitter about his murder of Cedric Diggory.

"Harry, look," his mother said. She nodded to the doorway at the opposite end of the room, the one without the fireplace. Draco was walking in, his fit frame adorned with a pearlescent green three-piece suit and polished black shoes; his hair, reminiscent of years one and two of Hogwarts education, elegant as it may be did nothing to smooth out the look of sheer ill-health that created niches beneath his eyes. Harry saw him look around nervously, almost shiftily, and take a place behind the chair to the immediate right of the largest chair in the room—that of Lucius Malfoy, probably.

Next came the Malfoys themselves—and it shamed him to say it but his parents were little to nothing in comparison to the blond couple. It was as if they were living statues, hooking you in with such intensity at the eyes that you didn't notice them gliding towards you. Lucius Malfoy's hair was pulled into a medium ponytail that tugged at his powerful cheekbones and made his eyes glimmer like actual _diamonds_ instead of their unafflicted grey. His skin looked to absorb all the warm light the candles cast at him and retain it; in comparison with the dark pallets of the room he was a glowing beacon of light.

And finally, Narcissa Malfoy. Whatever Draco's parents were, Harry (jokingly) refused to believe they weren't Veela. Narcissa simply looked too resplendent in the mocha coloured bodice that gave birth to a small halo of a dress extending down to her ankles. Her shoes were beige pumps, yellow diamonds making a skin for the heels; her hair poured down her back like water cascading from the vases of effigies of Hellenistic gods. Twined in with the white were strands of actual silver which only served to make her stark blue eyes pop even more. She widened her mouth into a welcoming smile, clasping her hands together at her shell-shocked guests to signal for them to sit.

Harry was second from the end, Goyle next to him with Goyle's father seated at the head, so he purchased warmth from the crackling fire. Lucius sat at the opposite end of the table, tucking in the long coattails of his grey dinner jacket; he snapped his fingers and the plates before them turned over to reveal an underside of delicious abandon much like they did at Hogwarts.

This was a much stricter affair, however—or more sophisticated like a Muggle restaurant, he supposed. There were no large bowls and plates set out in the middle so you could grab whatever you wanted, but each plate carried a sufficient meal and considering there were werewolves at the table Harry assumed it wouldn't be impolite to ask for more. This was, after all, an affair that resembled family or something to that effect. On his own there was the promised lasagne, thick folds of pasta lovingly lathered with cheese sauce, vegetables and mushrooms—but looking at it made him ill. He didn't feel he could eat, having lost his appetite, his mind stuck like a record on the events that would unfold in but hours.

When Lucius Malfoy told them all to dig in, Harry instead sat with his hands on his lap, looking anywhere but at his food. He glanced around at each of the people surrounding him, and some glanced back. None said anything about his neglect to eat, but Carrow gave a pinched frown, and Peter Pettigrew scrutinised him with his beady eyes. It was only when Lily nudged him gently did he pick up his fork, his food still piping hot, and start the monotonous process of eating something he knew he wouldn't be able to keep down.

"Oh, wow," he said as he took the first bite. Despite his hesitance, he couldn't deny that it was cooked to perfection; this was what his Amortentia probably smelled like. The first gulp was thick, heavy, but not too creamy; cheese sauce, mushroom, sweetcorn, green-beans, peppers: they created a heavenly cuisine, and soon Harry was starving. It was perhaps some conspiracy for him to eat his fill so he was strong enough for the rest of the night, and suddenly the thought of not eating the beautiful pasta was almost repulsive. He knew it was some sort of magic, but he didn't want to think about it. It was as if his mind had encountered a glitch and chose to forgo that small detail.

It felt like he hadn't eaten in a century but in all actuality it had been just under twelve hours. Still too long, though; so taken with the gorgeous taste that he completely forgot why they were dining in the first place. Next to him Goyle was tucking into a dinnertime rendition of the English breakfast while his mother helped herself to her Indian cuisine and, next to her, his father and Greyback tackled large mouthfuls of slightly-cooked meat. Harry guessed it was steak.

Draco, however, was eating a good lot of nothing. There was some cool vegetable dish on his plate but he pushed his fork around it with a sullen expression; Lucius was leaning over to murmur something to him quietly as Narcissa made pleasant conversation with Bellatrix. Neither of the Malfoys had anything in front of them; Harry frowned. Either they weren't hungry or they didn't eat. He could guess which.

He kept glancing over at Draco as the half-hour ticked by, and saw the gradual but steady consumption of food. Whatever his father had said to him made Draco determined to put the food inside his mouth, chew it and swallow it: he was probably under the spell, too. When it came time for desert – Harry's was treacle tart, a favourite, while his mother enjoyed an Asian sweet called _gulab jamun_ with mint ice cream – Lucius allowed his son to leave the small apple pie prepared for him. Yaxley, who had raced through his spotted dick, took the pie in his stride and patted his belly in satisfaction as Lucius rose to his feet, an empty glass in the air.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention—" the talk quietened down "—thank you. We gather here tonight as a farewell to familiarities. We stand as a group of friends, not just co-workers, but allies and families. We work together for the common rightness, and that rightness is spearheaded by the great and powerful Dark Lord." The name was repeated loudly. Harry said it weakly. "As we all know, it is but over an hour that His Lord shall arrive, and we have all preparations to make. We know what must be done, and we will do it with precision and pride." His eyes went around to each and every person, lingering on Harry the longest, and completely missing Draco. "And I must not, of course, neglect to mention the two here among our number who will swell our ranks. Months ago they made the vow, but today it shall be realised, and should loyalty prevail, so too will the satisfaction of the Dark Lord. There is no greater honour than serving the greatest wizard of our age!"

His glass was held high at this point and applause thundered around the room; Bellatrix shoved her own chalice into the air and said, "The greatest wizard of all time!" at which everybody roared and downed the contents of their silver. Lucius and Narcissa, their cups empty, simply nodded their heads in agreement; Narcissa went to her feet as her husband settled back into his chair.

"Speaking as a mother – oh, Fenrir, lose the sneer – and _mentor,_ I would like to offer words of courage to my Draco, and my Harry. I know dear Lily shares the same sentiment. Overcome the pain, boys, and the fright, and the terror, and the desire to be out from all of this, and tomorrow you shall awake as men. You shan't be boys any longer, but champions. And know that you are never alone." That was funny, thought Harry, because he didn't recall there being any other students at Hogwarts who transformed into mindless, hairy beasts every twenty-eight days. He sat there and nodded with a smile when everyone cheered his and Draco's names.

He thought maybe Lily would get up and say her piece but Harry knew how she felt. She seemed the private person, proud in a way that was entirely personal and safeguarded from the prying eyes of others. She squeezed his hand as both his father and Greyback got to their feet, laughing. Greyback swilled something in his cup – he was completely at ease not knowing the werewolf's preference of beverage – took a sip and then turned to Harry quickly and said with a booming laugh, "Welcome to the pack!"

It took him a moment to realise that Draco was the only one with a solemn face.

—x—

He thought about going to see Draco one last time, but it was already seven thirty-five and there was no chance he'd sneak through the house without his father and Greyback knowing. The full moon was almost on them and their senses would be harrowingly precise, he assumed. That would explain his father's shocking change of eye colour. After the meal they'd taken him to one side and expressly told him to scrub himself until his skin was raw, for the Dark Lord expected nothing short of perfection. There wasn't time to check on Draco; he'd only just started the bath after a good half an hour of retching and lying on his bed, trying not to think about what was to come.

It made him feel the coward. Hadn't he always faced his problems head-on before? Why the sudden shying away now? Was this some part of Slytherin Harry acting out? Was Slytherin Harry a Slytherin because he lacked sufficient braveness – recklessness – to wear the Gryffindor colours? Or was, oh, he didn't know, _becoming a werewolf_ a step too far for even his Gryffindor self?

He thought back to seeing Lupin under the full moon. The clouds rolled lazily across the sky to let the fat moon bathe the Whomping Willow in its pearly, lazy light; an arm came out from somewhere – Sirius's, yes – and he and Hermione halted right there and then. He remembered just _looking_ at Lupin, watching the bizarre scene before him as the professor went taught and still like a corpse, and then began to lengthen, each and every one of his bones growing and cracking, and his organs reshaping and bloating and shrinking to fit his new form. He remembered very precisely watching a snout come from Lupin's nose area, and Hermione said something about a potion, and then Sirius had told them to run. "Run," he whispered."Run! Now!"

Even now in a parallel reality, it was just as terrifying. It was a black stain on his mind: he remembered the feeling of _pure terror_. Everything had been going just fine, Snape was comatosed before them and Pettigrew had been under Lupin's command as they'd been making their way to the safety of the looming castle—and then things had just _changed_. It was so sudden and so unexpected that Harry thought he had been going to soil himself. He hadn't been prepared for it back then, and he wasn't prepared for it now.

He thought about finding a window to escape from but there were none in his room and there was no way he'd get past his father and Greyback without alerting them. Or maybe they'd be so busy with last minute preparations for the arrival of Voldemort that they wouldn't notice. Harry couldn't hear what was going on in other parts of the house but surely they were moving things around and making a lot of general noise, right? He could slip out of the window, shimmy down the drainpipe or otherwise. He'd always been very good at climbing and had the right type of scrawniness for it. Even with this 'improved' version of himself he knew he could still do it if he tried...

But then if he didn't do it, he knew where the blame would go. Voldemort would pin his disappearance on his parents, and if he was anywhere near as unforgiving as Harry knew him to be then he'd murder them for their disobedience. And if not James, then it would definitely be Lily to show his father a lesson. Harry couldn't do that. He'd lost them once already.

Perhaps he did have lion's courage after all.

—x—

It was eight-forty five, and the Dark Lord had been inside the manor for almost an hour. Harry hadn't heard his arrival, and neither had he felt it, but he knew from looking at the clock. He'd swallowed thickly and gone on with his bath, but it didn't escape him that he didn't feel the odd prickle at his forehead that usually accompanied Voldemort's general presence in the area. By all rights his scar should have been whining uncomfortably for the best part of an hour, but he no longer owned that scar. It belonged to someone else now, and he intended to discover just exactly _whom_.

As he marched down the hallways and corridors accompanied by Antonin Dolohov, he took in steady breaths. He told himself that if he just breathed then it would be easier. He was well-dressed by all accounts with smart trousers and shoes, and a long black robe. He wore a crisp white shirt buttoned high and fastened with a silken tie of green and silver. He knew to honour Salazar in Voldemort's presence. Voldemort was, after all, the heir of Slytherin. His hair was carefully pruned, eyes steady and dry of panicked tears, and he was sweating only a little thanks to a charm he'd cast on himself. He wanted – needed – to appear calm, confident and dedicated. Voldemort had no room for the weak.

_Breathe, think, absorb,_ he told himself. Voldemort was the first hurdle; the transformation was the next. They passed through the dining room which was now set only with low lights and none of the lingering warmth from their dinner, and to a large drawing room which featured a pair of French doors. Draco was waiting there already, also dressed similarly. He had drawn aside his blond hair neatly, and his eyes were forward-facing and emotionless. He was pale and cold steel.

Dolohov told Harry to stand next to Draco and not speak. He chanced a glance at Draco one last time but his friend carried a look of determination that blocked out everything around him. Harry could only attempt to emulate it.

Through the glass sat the family's garden, a long and sweeping affair stretching out for seeming miles and bordered by immaculately-shaped trees that stopped quite a way down; a high wall of trimmed hedges rose to at least twice their height, topped with patrolling peacocks; before them was a stone patio set with priceless statues that tailed off into two curving staircases; a gravelled frontier there lay beyond, cutting into the well-kept grass of the garden, and lead straight through the middle of the garden as a path which gave birth to a mini piazza of sorts.

It was there that they were all congregated in a large circle around two tall cages of gleaming silver that winked softly under the passing moonlight. And in the middle of the gathering there strode Voldemort.

Looking at him made Harry's heart skip too many beats. He couldn't see well from his position but he made out the smooth, pebbled head peaking out of a long river of flowing, dark robes. He could imagine what was there, too: a gnarled white wand in hand, clasped between glass-like fingernails, and bare feet flattening the grass. Had that been anybody else, Lucius Malfoy would have sworn to high Heaven, but as it stood Voldemort was not just _anybody else,_ and so Lucius Malfoy would not make a fuss about even the long and daunting snake whose slick underbelly was tickled by his grass.

The moment dragged on forever. Voldemort moved back and forth, pointing and smirking and speaking to the snake. Once he tapped on the cages with his wand, looked up at the moon with a grin that showcased his grimy teeth, and then his eyes went to both Harry and Draco. Harry's knees almost knocked, but he shook gently instead—it took immense self-control to do just that, but his nervousness was evident in his heartbeat.

_He was about to become a werewolf and one of Voldemort's weapons. He was about to join Voldemort's league._

His fingers trembled as Dolohov opened the door with his wand, leading them both out. He went down the left side, so Harry went after him with Draco trailing behind. His own breathing was much too loud in his ears, and he thought he was going to piss himself from sheer terror really, and his head went light and a tonne of other horrible things. Draco's footsteps down the staircase boomed heavily in mind like the decisive sway of a pendulum clock. Harry knew he was doomed with no way out.

His mother. Had to think of his mother.

It was her well-being – and absolutely his father's – that kept him walking on behind Dolohov. The column they made was uniform; though he didn't know it from the outside he looked fearless, determined. Almost excited, maybe. Moonlight caught on his eyes and set them aglow but that would be nothing in comparison to the shocking blue he'd soon have when the moon sat high in the sky at its cyclic peak. The only sign of any sort of inflection he made as they arrived at the circle, which parted to admit them, was the slight pressing of his lips into a thin line.

Voldemort had been facing away, talking down to his snake in low hushes, but he turned, his robes billowing out around him, and met Harry eye for eye. His mind blanked as he hitched in a breath, wondering of all things the social protocols of superiors and inferiors, but realised that this was a test. He peered lightly into Voldemort's cloudy, greenish-blue eyes and then bowed his head. He hoped it had been long enough, and not _too long_: he wanted to show absolute fidelity, and then submission. Voldemort had always liked submission he recalled, things being in their proper place. He liked the strong and the smart, those who had mountains of potential but knew to bow down to a superior wizard. He wanted to have done well.

Voldemort did the same to Draco, moving across a couple of inches. Harry was hyper aware all of a sudden. Not of the cages, the people around him or the fact that there were two werewolves nearing the peak of their twenty-eight days but of Voldemort himself. He moved with precise elegance: he was not shabby, and he was in control. He was absolutely the best of the best and Harry knew that notion bled through into his subconscience, relaxed his muscles and affected the way he even blinked; he drew up his wand lazily and touched the side of Draco's face with his fingertips. Harry heard him stifle a sharp intake of breath, the moment hanging, but then it was over.

Voldemort lowered his wand, put his back to the both of them in order to address the others, and said loftily: _"Begin."_

Harry's jaw quivered, heartbeat went through the roof and reverberated through his every bone. His fingers began to shake again as he saw Greyback give a bow to Voldemort, who moved to stand at the head of the circle, blocking Crabbe's father's view, and then approach Harry slowly. Greyback's suit was gone, replaced instead by a robe fastened along his chest with nothing else underneath; his feet were bare, his toenails disgustingly gnarled as he padded across the grass. These were a few of the subtle changes in his stance and appearance that signalled the reins he held over his impending transformation, his eyes the most obvious of them all.

His pupils were dilated in pleasure. Did he view Harry as meat? Harry rose his head as he came closer but ultimately Greyback towered over him and it would've looked obnoxious had Harry attempted to keep looking him confidently in the face. The hair spanning his hands and face was thicker and darker than usual, teeth so sharp that small welts about his lower lip and gum were beginning to form. Harry dared not chance one last look at Draco, whose breathing was taking a prolonged hiatus.

"Keep your eyes open, son," said Greyback lowly. He turned to the side away out of Harry's view, holding him in place at the shoulder as he saw his father pass his own set of robes and wand to Lily. Nobody seemed to be embarrassed by James's nudity but it was something Harry could have done without seeing. Yet he watched his father intently as Lily charmed the thick padlock on the cage to hold fast, and saw that there were strained ridges of bone and muscle about his spine, fingers and knees. He turned to Harry once, giving him a nod, and then went to face Voldemort. What his facial expression was, Harry would never know.

The quietness was broken by Greyback's low boom. "Ten," he started, "nine..." Harry's eyes went wide as his father gave a pained howl, doubling over. Hands clasped at his stomach, the pale moonlight shining over his back which was bursting into a mat of course, dark hair very slowly. He fell to his knees as the countdown went on, reared his head back at one point to blink at the roof of the cage as if in desperate prayer, and then when Greyback's silent _zero_ came, James cried out like someone was lashing him with the Cruciatus curse, and fell forward onto his stomach.

"A-AAAH!"

His screams rose high into the air; the peacocks squawked and dashed away, but Harry was completely transfixed. He witnessed as each and every vertebrate shot from its position, forcing the man to arch off the floor in a painful curve. The bottom of his back swelled, hips and pelvis making a terrifying _crack;_ his skin split where his body widened, blood pouring down to make way for the thick chords of muscle to support the skin where it had fallen in. Hair seemingly sprouted from every pore his body had to offer as it went on with the bones of his upper legs crunching unattractively to lengthen, ripping the muscle apart as they went, and allowing the werewolf venom (this was Greyback's term) to repair the damage. Thighs bulged at the knees, which collapsed under the stress of his animal weight only to reform once again in tandem with the breaking and angling of his calves. Harry's throat was jammed with fear as he watched his father reach forwards among his screams to pull himself towards the bars, but what his face was doing Harry couldn't see.

"See the pain he endures!" bellowed Voldemort. His voice was unnaturally human next to James's, which was gradually shifting to a wolfish snarl. "He endures it in my name!" The others agreed with claps and shouts: the environment was electric. Harry's eyes met those of Draco but before he could really take in the alarmed expression Greyback was ushering him towards the cage and ordering him to remove his clothes. For a blind moment he was dumbfounded as the cries of his father reached deafening levels, but his fingers eventually found the buttons of his robes and shirt and he began to undress himself.

He would have been uncomfortable in his nakedness had it not been for the extremity of the situation at hand. He so badly wanted to back out right now, feeling the tears of terror build, but the look his mother gave him from across the ring was too sad. He could not sadden her further. He had to do this without question. Dumbledore would fix it just as he fixed everything. Dumbledore would find an answer.

His mind was screaming so loudly his father's transition seemed to take no time at all before him. He wished it lasted longer to put it off for but a few more seconds, but Greyback had wand and clothing in possession now, handing them over to someone else, and then he was marching Harry forwards to stand before the cage where his father – or what had been his father – stood, sniffing at the air in the initial moments following his change. It was undoubtedly Harry's harsh breathing that made him wheel around with roaring, howling ferocity.

What was there was not human. His eyes were charcoal black and soulless: Harry found himself staring into his own personal abyss. He was about to die, he thought, irrationally – no, _rationally!_ – his heart aching to leap out of his throat and make a quicker job of it: but Greyback held him in place once more, disallowing him the time to reel back or reconsider or beg for mercy, and then his father's long, hairy arm was thrusting between the bars and raking its glossy, heated nails across his skin.

And that was it. Greyback pulled him back instantly, and Harry waited for a split second, dazed, before he felt it.

_It._

Fire exploded across his skin like the sharpest of stings: it was like a raw wound stuffed with salt at first but then it become something else entirely. He keeled over, looking to latch onto something to prevent the fall but found only the ground. Hands shook as he grasped the wound that was blackening, deep and hot like Hell across his flesh, killing off the skin and rotting his body. He screamed both out of panic and agony: the anguish gripped his belly, squeezed at his ribcage and pulled him upwards with its grasp. His back gave a terrible shudder before he too curved upwards, fire spreading to his shoulders and arms and groin and thighs: something stirred inside him, that fire diving deep into the marrow of his bones and turning it into ash; his nerves screamed; he began to convulse uncontrollably, jaw locked. Blood spurted into his mouth as he bit off the tip of his tongue: it fell back into his throat, clogging it; he couldn't swallow, restricted by the flames that were ravaging his every sense and making his entire body rigid; he was choking!

He would have tried to scream had he been able, but he couldn't even think of it. His mind was blank, taken and swept with the agony. He didn't recognise his own choking but knew it only added to the overall torture. Head went light, body drove deep into an entire new circle of Hell: something was crawling through him, piercing his every tendon, capillary, layer of skin. Had he been coherent in mind, he would have rationalised it as venom. As it stood he didn't have that virtue and so instead could only wallow in the cruel and endless torment.

Well, not endless. It stopped abruptly, but for how long or why or how long since it began Harry couldn't answer. He blinked, certainly feeling no different, ripped opened his mouth and coughed up the nasty, congealed blood and bit of tongue jammed in his throat. It came out in thick, dark globs that glistened darkly in the moonlight. Propping himself weakly on an elbow he looked around, shivering and shaking. Everybody was dead silent: Lily was weeping, hands pressed up to her eyes. And then Greyback came down, scooped him up, and locked him in the other cage.

Hadn't that been the transformation? No, no, he was still human: his legs were hairier he saw, definitely with more of a muscular bulge about them, but otherwise nothing was really different. Not until he swivelled onto his back and looked through the bars right into Greyback's dark pupils. There, perfectly cast, was his own image. He could see himself in Greyback's eyes from the distance spanning between them.

As soon as it hit him as dizzying, his eyes seemed to zoom away and give him back his periphery. He made a low moan of illness in his throat, turned onto his side as the last of the fire subsided, and met his father's werewolf face. There was nothing violent there when their eyes connected: James cocked his head briefly, whinnying. He stuck his snout through the gaps to get a better sniff at Harry whose hand drifted, now on his knees, across the space between them and touched his fingers to his father's muzzle as if tantalised.

Then the moment was broken when Greyback tossed his robes to one side and called Harry's name. The sound was loud and clear in his ears: he could _hear_ the individual tones and cadences that made his name. It was a good sound, he realised, very beautiful. He said it himself, testing, murmuring his name as Sirius had done back at the Ministry.

Beyond the veil. Harry was completely beyond the veil now.

He watched the others retreat, all save Voldemort. His snake wound its way up his arm and across his shoulders as Greyback turned to him to offer quiet words—words Harry could hear like whispers in his own ears. Voldemort replied, nodding, agreeing to whatever Greyback was saying; Harry was more focused on the sounds of the syllables than their actual meaning. His eyes trained into the hair follicles of Greyback's wide, blackened shoulder blades, wondering what came next, when it hit him again.

It wasn't the seeping fire this time: it was an explosion. It came from his core, deep in his soul it seemed, and fanned outwards to send him sprawling spread-eagle against the hard cage floor. Eyes rolled upwards, threatening to go deep into the back of his head, but he glimpsed Greyback falling to his hands and knees before Voldemort as the change overtook him, too. What came next could not be described as fathomable. If James had been screaming, Harry was beyond description. His body was new and unaccustomed to the pain of transformation whereas his father was witness to many moons: everything seemed to break at _once,_ sending his body into a hundred directions.

It was the worst at his spine. That snapped, hot liquid seeping down and soaking his bones: things grew, shoved other things out of the way, bruised and split and gashed. It felt like somebody was taking a thousand knives and stabbing them into him willy-nilly all at once with no clear-cut direction as to method. He felt his liver swell to painful proportions then return to its normal size before shrinking: either that or his kidney or a bit of his intestines. All of it hurt and he could not think. His cries became gagged squeals as his jaw popped from its locket and broke in eight different places: bone shifted, crashed into other bits of bone, his gums split and bled and popped a collection of teeth onto the ground with nerves still attached. He went to grab at himself again to try and hold at least some part of his breaking body, but his fingers were broken backwards, nails spitting out onto the ground. Hair bloomed in thick, shaggy layers.

He started to fit once more as the fire shot through his nerves and smashed at his muscles, tearing them from bone and skin. Fat chunks of blood blocked his veins and made them burst, sending liquid life splattering underneath his skin. His toes snapped, the little knuckles pulled apart and held at width as the fire formed some sort of support between them—and then came the legs. His femurs groaned as they cracked and split from within, mushrooming outwards to better support the new hulk of weight above his pelvis: and they lengthened to give him an extra couple of inches in height... but then were the calves, and they were sheaved clean in two. Harry yelped pleadingly but could only weep as some new joint was formed to create and support the new bend in his lower leg much like that of a cat or a dog.

He would have wondered when it would all be over and when he would find refuge or mercy. It didn't come to him that there would be no sense of humanity when it was all done, and that he would take to the night with the ravenous lust of a newborn pup. He could already feel the desire come in his throat: a quiet kindling at first but then as unbearable as the rest of it. His organs amidst their reshaping ached for nourishment and the hot spatter of blood over his teeth as he diced and consumed succulent flesh.

It was that hunger that dominated all, and the transformation didn't seem so bad as the cognitive, human parts of his brain slowly shut down. His morals were compartmentalised and sealed away quickly now that the transformation was giving the last verse of its performance, stretching out his tongue into a dagger-sharp point... and then he was gone.

Harry – werewolf Harry – blinked. Strange colours sat around him, different shades of grey. Where his sight was colourless, his smell was saturated. He could smell something metallic, copper or steel he did not know or care about, and then sweetness somewhere. Somewhere up. He glimpsed with his wolfish, blackened eyes a fat white pearl of heavenly nature, and he stepped towards it to see what it was.

When he did see it, his heart wrenched. It was a physical iteration of beauty's definition: pocked by craters but wholesome and world-filling. It blinded everything else in his vision and for all the flesh and game in the world he couldn't consider anything more gorgeous. It was the moon, and it became animated. As its rays shimmered down he could _feel_ it pulsing like a heart. His own pulsed in tandem, and he knew instantly that it was his mistress.

There was a howl next to him, sharp and defined. He turned to see another like him: from there he smelt pheromones that he smelt on himself, and then from a source behind him. That other, and the one behind him, were creed. He was smaller than the other in the second shining confinement, and completely dwarfed by the free one, but he joined in on the howling and together they created a sonata for the mistress, an ode of obedience and unending appreciation.

Voldemort stepped forwards. The snake was pressed closed to him, suppressing its hisses as he talked to it in Parseltongue, careful to not let any part of its long body touch Greyback. The largest werewolf ignored him completely: he stepped into Harry's sight and said something to him. What it was Harry didn't know or care. Now he looked at Voldemort he saw something unfamiliar, but it wasn't repulsive. He didn't feel the need to attack or defend himself.

The cloak shifted as he stepped forwards to look into the werewolf's face. Harry stared right back at him almost curiously, going from eyes to riddled veins to flat nose. The snake peered at him cautiously, but then Voldemort was gone and Harry was free to admire the moon again, smelling nothing but the stench of snake and human on the grass. And magic, of course: magic had its own particular sizzle, and the snake man was practically dripping with it. Harry, however, couldn't find it in him to care. He heard the latch of his cage break, and he bowled out to crouch next to Greyback and his father.

Not that he knew who was who by name: the largest, Greyback by far, was simply the one that commanded the most attention. Harry whined and pressed his head low to the ground then touched Greyback's collarbone with his nose. Greyback eyed him as he did so, but there was no violence. Only a low, accepting roll of thunder from his throat that signified him as the alpha welcoming a new pup into his pack. He watched as Harry did the same to James, with equal reverence, and then they were all howling again, hunger settled deep in their bellies.

Harry wheeled around, catching a last glimpse of the moon. It soothed his urges momentarily, but Greyback's hulking figure pounding off deeper into the garden caught his attention, and the hunger was on him again. The moon could watch over its new son as he gorged himself on his first kill, and his new family could watch over the child protectively. What Harry caught between his teeth didn't matter: it would start his new life either way and draw him closer to both his father and Greyback.

Away he sped with the manor at his back, completely unaware that Draco's heart was eddying to its final beat.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's notes: <em>**_I claim no ownership over the copyrighted _Harry Potter_ materials from which my fanfiction is derived. All rights and reserves go to J.K. Rowling, author of the novels, and Warner Bros. which owns the film rights of the films upon which this work is partially based. I own my own creativity and personal interpretation of the works, characters, events, canon and concepts but nothing more. Unfortunately I wish the characters were mine, but they aren't!_

_As another important note, I have to tell you I have a vague idea of where this story is going. It'll be based on the original material, of course, but so is most fanfiction. Think of this as canonical AU if you will; i.e. what could've happened. At any rate, **please review** so I know that you're happy with this and wish it to continue._


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